On The Surface
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Season 2, post Nightshifter. On the run from the FBI, the brothers are sidelined by a snowstorm and find themselves at the mercy of a sheltered town filled with secrets. Staying alive means staying together as they fight to stay on the surface.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine. More's the pity.

**Spoilers:** Season 2, dove-tailing the end of Episode 2.12, _Nightshifter_. If you're just joining the fun, spoilers up to then.

**a/n: **These last six years been an eventful, heartbreaking, and often-times hilarious journey with our heroes. I am in for the long haul, but have to say that Season 2 has thus far been my favorite part of their story, back when they were working out how to be brothers _and_ partners after being orphaned by a demon. I wanted to write a story that was just the brothers and a hunt. You'll be the judge if I pulled it off okay.

**Note**: the main geographic location in this story is fabricated. Any similarity with an existing location is purely coincidental.

**Caroline**, this one is for you. We've been more than virtual friends, we've been writing partners and confidents. I am honored to continue our 'sojourn' of friendship. And because both music and _Supernatural_ brought us together, each chapter will have lyrics rather than quotes.

**TTE**, you are my touchstone.

* * *

_I__ heard a voice inside of me; I looked up and saw the sky scream, and there was light everywhere. If life is an ocean, then I must be on the surface._

_~On the Surface_ by Civil Twilight

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**PROLOGUE**

**New Lethe, MN**

"It's freezing out here."

"Quitcher bitchin' already."

"_You_ quit."

"Stop shovin' me!"

"_Hey!_"

Four birds, startled by the sudden, sharp voice, took flight from the protection of the boathouse in a hap-hazard flutter of wings and screeches, sending the three teenagers into an instinctive crouch. The dark inside the boathouse pressed around them, suddenly filled with the unknown and the frightening.

Beyond them, the lake's ink-like surface seemed to absorb the starlight rather than reflect it. Wavering light from orange, plastic flashlights swung around to the dark corners of the wooden building as nerves settled. A half a dozen boats, moored by ropes and covered in protective tarps, bumped gently in their respective stalls and the lap of water against the building and shoreline assured the boys that they were still alone.

Blowing his bangs from his eyes in a huff of air, Matthew Mead repeated his reproach.

"Hey." It was softer this time, drawing the eyes of his two friends, their shoulders still curled in as if expecting the birds to return and seek revenge for being startled from their perch. "Shut the hell up, okay? You wanna bring the whole town down here?"

"I still say this is a bad idea," grumbled Nate Fischer, shoving his gloved hands deeper into his down-filled coat. "It's freezing."

"You said that already," pointed out Eric Jones. "About five times now."

"It was true every time." Nate's voice edged on a whine.

"You girls wanna just stay here?" Matt pointed his flashlight first at Nate, then at Eric, making sure to hold the light long enough that they registered his disapproval. "'Cause I can find two other guys to make this dive next week."

"No." Eric's reply was swift. Matt knew Eric wanted this as bad as he did. "No, I'm up for it."

"Fischer?" Matt's flashlight was joined by Eric's as they pointed the beams toward Nate. "You gonna punk out on us?"

Nate pulled his lower lip in, his thick glasses reflecting the light and masking his eyes. Matt tipped the beam down slightly, but Eric kept his steady. Nate was smaller than both of them, and the weakest swimmer. But his dad had the boat and they all knew they weren't going to do this without him.

"Why couldn't we wait until later? Y'know…like, when it's light outside." Nate turned to look out over the dark water; sunrise wasn't for another hour and the combination of trees and the remains of the dam shielded the lake from any reassurance of first light.

Matt sighed and Eric let the beam of his flashlight fall to the creaking, wooden deck along the inside edge of the boathouse.

"Dude, we've been over this, like, a million times," Matt said, trying for patient and landing somewhere near annoyed. "We can_not_ get caught. You know that part of the lake is off limits now. We gotta get down there, find the lock box, and get our asses back before the patrol comes 'round."

Nate chewed his lip another moment. "We don't even know if the lock box is there."

"Sure it's there," Eric protested, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, the close-cropped bristles of his hair flicking against his fingers. "Everyone who's lived here since they made this lake knows it's there."

"No," Nate corrected, shaking his long bangs away from his glasses in a practiced tick of his head. "Everyone who's lived here since they made this lake has heard that story. Don't mean it's _there_. 'Sides, if it's there, hows come nobody's gone after it before?"

Eric pushed at him with the flashlight. "Because until this past summer the buildings were all covered by water and no one knew where the Judge's house used to be."

"Oh, so it's okay to steal it _now _since we've had a drought. I get it." Nate rolled his eyes.

"Jesus, Fischer!" Matt exploded, Eric and Nate ducking in anticipation of more birds. "If you were so against this, why'd you even come this far, then, huh?"

Nate was silent, but Eric smirked. "I'll tell you why. Jenna Maloney."

Matt frowned. "Jenna's a senior."

"Exactly," Eric continued, his smirk twisting wider as his flashlight caught Nate's obvious discomfort. "And no way is some hot senior gonna look twice at a punk-ass sophomore like Fischer unless he's part of something like this."

Once more joining his flashlight to Eric's, Matt nodded sagely. "So what about it, Fischer? You ready to risk it?"

Nate shook his head, swearing softly under his breath. "Fine. But I stay on the boat," he finally relented, reaching for the knot to loosen the tarp that covered the boat. "You two jerk-offs freeze to death down there, don't come crying to me."

"We have wet suits, dumb ass," Eric pointed out, helping Nate roll the tarp back.

Nate's glasses caught the beam from Matt's flashlight has he looked over his shoulder. "How'd you get those?"

Matt shrugged. "Borrowed 'em. From my dad."

"You _stole_ them from the _sheriff_?" Nate squeaked.

"No." Matt's voice was firm as he dropped the two duffel bags full of equipment into the back of the boat. "I _borrowed_ them from my _dad_. Kinda like you and this here boat, pal."

Eric climbed in and caught the flashlight Matt tossed his way. He reached for the rope anchoring the stern to the deck, then made his way to the bow to help Nate step into the boat.

"I'm just going on record as saying this is a bad idea," Nate huffed.

"But you're in, right?" Eric asked sliding out of the way to allow Nate access to the steering wheel.

"I'm here, ain't I?"

Working as a unit, the three boys pushed the boat from its stall, using oars to shove it out from the boathouse and into the yawning opening of the lake. Once they'd paddled a fair distance from the building, Nate pressed the starter button as he turned the key and the Evinrude motor came to life like a million angry dragonflies.

Nate turned toward the west end of Lethe Lake as the other two took seats on either side of the twenty-foot boat. The sound of the motor seemed to echo off the shoreline, but all three knew they were safe from detection until the Lethe sheriff's office sent out the first morning patrol to keep boaters from venturing into what was now an unsafe section of Lethe Lake.

Lethe had become a haven for those who enjoyed a life of semi-luxury and preferred to stay off the grid as much as possible. Residents proudly dubbed Lethe the Hamptons of the North; it was exclusive to those who could afford the real estate prices, it was geographically private, and the almost familial connections of those who lived year-round and those who summered on the lake created a virtually impenetrable neighborhood watch.

Eric Jones' father was one of the two developers responsible for creating this sanctuary. After systematically buying up the properties of Old Lethe, MN, population 324, they destroyed the dam and created Lethe Lake and the town of New Lethe, playground to the could-have-been-wealthy and the wish-they-were-famous.

Matt Mead, Nate Fischer, and Eric Jones had never lived in Old Lethe, moving to the revitalized town four years ago with their families. The town had enjoyed nearly three years of prosperity before a year-long drought lowered the water level of Lethe Lake, exposing the rooftops of Old Lethe in several places and creating water hazards in over half the lake. Word in the small community was if they couldn't restore the lake, summer residency would drop and the town could be in financial ruin.

It was Matt's idea to search for the lock box.

Judge McAvoy had passed away the year after the town had been flooded; it was common knowledge among Lethe residents, old and new, that the good Judge had not trusted the small bank and had kept his riches in a lock box in the study of his home. After his death, no one had been able to find his box, sparking the rumor that he'd left it behind.

Matt was convinced that he could find that box; he'd found a street map of Old Lethe, located the Judge's residence, and with the confidence of youth fanning the flame of his conviction, talked his two friends into joining him on his quest to save the town—and become heroes in the meantime.

"Spooky out here," Eric said softly as Nate slowed the boat.

The moonless sky gave way to stars too numerous to count, but the dead light was barely enough to illuminate the dark surface of the lake. As they drew closer to the barrier that police now patrolled, Nate's hands shook slightly and he switched on the search light his father had mounted on the bow of the boat.

All three boys drew back involuntarily as the light immediately hit the cross and bell tower of the First Baptist Church, the tallest building in Old Lethe built atop a hill that crested at the edge of the sunken town.

"This is a bad idea," Nate whispered, the words almost becoming a chant as he muttered them again under his breath.

"Oh, Jesus, don't be a pussy," Matt growled, unzipping one of the duffel bags and pulling out an oxygen tank. "It's just some old buildings. Grow the fuck up already."

Eric and Nate exchanged a nervous glance, neither certain what scared them more: the empty, water-covered town, or looking like a pussy in front of Matt.

"Lookit that," Eric whispered, his hushed voice conveying deference to the eerie sight before them.

All three boys stilled, eyes front as Nate maneuvered the boat past the old church and further into the restricted area. They could see the very top crest of a rooftop near the shoreline, a rusted, bent weather vane breeching the surface of the dark water. Eric took hold of the search light, bending the beam until it no longer reached outward, but downward, through the first few clear inches of lake water, to the submerged buildings below.

"This. Is. So. Cool." Matt's voice trembled slightly. He wasn't sure if it was nerves or cold, but at this point he didn't care. "It's like we're discovering the Titanic or something."

"I think it's creepy," Nate muttered, turning the boat slightly to avoid catching the engine propellers on a barely submerged roof.

"You would," Matt and Eric replied in unison.

Nate shot them a dirty look, the gray light of dawn that had begun to penetrate the protection of trees turning his face a cold blue.

"Okay, we need to find Hanover Street," Matt said, shining his flashlight on the map he'd found of Old Lethe.

"Yeah? And how the hell are we supposed to do that? Not like we can ask for directions." Nate's sarcasm was cut by his chattering teeth.

Matt ignored him. "It's three streets down from the old church," he said, shining the flash light over his shoulder. "So, if that's the church, then I'd say…." He grabbed the search light from Eric and pointed it forward. "Hanover is probably right up there near that piece of land that juts out. See it?"

"There aren't any roofs above water over there," Eric pointed out, frowning. "What if the house is on the other side of the lake?"

"Nah, it's here." Matt shook his head once. "My dad said that the Judge had the biggest house in town. We can't miss it once we're down there."

Nate continued forward for a few more minutes, throttling back when Matt put a hand on his shoulder. He cut the engine and watched as Matt nodded with satisfaction. Breath collecting in small clouds before their shivering lips, Eric and Matt began to pull on the wet suits, their pale skin puckering with goose flesh in the cold morning air. All three had spent the last few summers shagging golf balls from the East end of the lake for minimum wage. They were accustomed to the suits and heavy tanks.

As the sun drew thin slivers of light on the eastern horizon, the pale gray of the morning shifted, exposing the shadow of the shoreline. Nate pressed the button on the dash, dropping the anchor to keep the boat stationary as his friends searched for the lock box. The quiet was broken only by the soft grunts of effort as the boys pulled the malleable rubber up over their slim bodies and the quiet lapping of the lake against the fiberglass hull of the boat.

The boys toppled slightly to the side when the boat bumped against something solid as it floated.

"I think we might be scraping against a roof," Eric said, tugging the zipper of the wetsuit up.

"I'll reset the anchor," Nate offered, pressing the button to pull up the anchor.

The grind of gears brought their heads up, three frowns identical.

"What's that?" Matt asked, shining the flashlight on the dash.

"It's stuck on something," Nate said. "I can't pull it up."

"Probably snagged one of the buildings," Matt said, shrugging into the shoulder straps of the oxygen tank. Eric helpfully shone the flashlight on the gauges as Matt checked the levels, testing the breather. "You two stay here; I'll get it loose and then Fischer can move the boat."

The other two boys nodded, watching as Matt pulled the face mask on and swung his legs over the edge of the boat. Instead of flippers, both he and Eric wore rubber shoes so as to move more easily inside the buildings and avoid getting snagged on any structural damage caused by the destructive water. Matt turned on the powerful underwater flashlight and grabbed Eric's arm, allowing his friend to lower him down.

Eric pulled his arm up quickly once Matt was in the water, shaking his fingers dry.

"Dude, that water's wicked cold," he complained. "This is crazy."

"Oh, so _now_ it's crazy," Nate muttered, pounding on the anchor button sullenly. "When Mead's up here you're all, _oh, Matty, I'm up for anything…I'll go with you, Matty…I'll wipe your ass for you, Matty…."_

Eric threw a shoe at Nate, bouncing it off of his shoulder. "Shut up, Fischer."

"You just watch," Nate said, leaning over the edge of the boat and shining his flash light down onto the surface. "This whole stupid idea is going to totally blow up in our—"

Nate and Eric fell back yelling as Matt suddenly exploded from the water like a geyser, screeching around his breather. He scrabbled madly at the side of the boat, spitting his mouth piece out.

"_Pull me up! Pull me up_!" he shrieked.

Completely freaked out, Nate and Eric scrambled back to the side of the boat. Moving as one, they reached over the edge of the boat and grabbed onto their water-logged friend as Matt's voice became young and high-pitched with fear. Matt was heavy: the rubber wet suit was hard to grip and the oxygen tank pulled him backwards toward the water and out of their hands.

"What! What is it? What is it?" Eric screamed back at his friend, grabbing anything his cold hands could reach.

Before Matt could reply, a tangled mass of rotted cloth, weeds, and protruding bones surfaced next to him. Any doubt as to what it could be was removed when the yawning grin and empty eye sockets of a skull rolled upwards, bits of skin and hair still clinging to the bone.

Eric and Nate screamed, dropping their friend back into the water and backing away from the edge of the boat. As the corpse bobbed next to him, Matt's screams rivaled his friend's as he shucked the oxygen tank in record time, allowing it to fall to the bottom of the lake.

He kicked frantically, using his panicked momentum to reach the top edge of the boat. Nate continued to back up as Eric stared, horrified, at the body.

One arm floated toward Matt, the motion of the water turning the boney fingers into a summons.

"_Get outta here, man! Go!"_ Matt screamed.

Nate crashed into Eric as he headed for the wheel. He slapped the flat of his hand on the anchor button, the satisfying sound of the cable retracting settling his nerves slightly.

"Jones! Jones! _ERIC_!" Nate yelled, finally having to reach out and shove his friend's shoulder to get his attention. Eric turned wide eyes toward him, his face sickeningly pale. "Get Matt! Help him!"

Eric didn't move. His feet seemed to have grown roots, cementing him upright at the edge of the boat. Nate could hear Matt's gasps of effort as he tried to climb aboard the boat.

"Matt!" He yelled. "Go around to the stern! Use the motor like a ladder, man!"

Matt clung to the side of the boat, his body shivering from cold and shock, his hands uncooperative. He followed Nate's instructions and flopped aboard the boat, rolling from the rear seat to the floor. The moment he was aboard, Nate started the motor, turning the wheel a sharp right and sending Eric to the ground on top of his friend.

"Just wanted to find the box—" Matt's voice trembled in time with his chattering teeth, covering his friends in a litany of horror and regret without pause for reason, "—that's all…wanted to save the town show my dad I could do something that mattered, you know…just do something right for once…something he'd be proud of…just one thing…find the box…and it's down there holding the fucking anchor like it's gonna ride out of the lake…oh my God it was just _there_ just fucking _there_—"

"Shut up!" Eric finally yelled, shoving Matt away from him. "Shut the hell up!"

"Told you this was a bad idea," Nate proclaimed.

As he steered them toward the lakeside police station, the sunlight finally hit the water, turning their wake a frothy gold and glinting off of the cross that crested the surface, shining like a beacon toward what had been a watery grave.

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**Chapter One**

**Milwaukee, WI**

It was like being hit with a sledgehammer.

Dean dimly recalled reading about shapeshifter's superior strength; Sam had recounted the struggle to simply survive the fight with the shifter who had taken on Dean's form. And there was no question this chick had eaten her Wheaties this morning. He was getting his ass kicked and hard.

His natural inclination to not hit a woman evaporated when he felt his shoulder pop as she twisted in his grip. Heat blew through his upper chest like a wildfire; he tried to stifle his cry, unwilling to draw the S.W.A.T. team's attention to the boiler room until he'd neutralized this threat.

Channeling the pain from his wrenched shoulder into a series of reactive blows, he managed to get her against the wall, barely controlling his hammering breath, his pulse pressing against the thin skin of his neck. Working to ignore the human look of desperation caught in her eyes, Dean grappled with the shifter for dominance.

And then her skin peeled away.

Horrified, Dean looked at the angry red of the exposed muscles in her arm, the skin gooey in his grip.

"Gross!" He gagged, reacting instinctively to the mess in his hand.

He dropped it to the floor, returning his attention to the creature caught between him and the wall, but he was two beats too late. The shifter used his distraction to her advantage and delivered an incapacitating blow to his groin. Dean instantly went to his knees, gasping for air. The white-hot pain shot like a lit rocket through his system, exploding in his gut like a bomb. His eyes watered as he sucked the involuntary yelp back behind his teeth.

Before he had a chance to recover, his head snapped harshly to the side as her closed fist slammed against his cheek once, twice. On the third hit his ears began to ring and the breath he desperately sought retreated further, his vision wavering, the shifter swimming before his eyes.

_I know about your dad...I just can't get a handle on what type of whacko he was…._

Hendrickson's words echoed in his ears, the implications spinning him, sending his vision gray. He once more felt the acid in his chest as the agent's bitter words draw black marks across John's memory, adding to the marks Dean had created with his own anger, resentment, and regret.

His failure to locate and eliminate this monster before Ron had been killed, before he and Sam had been cornered by Federal Agents twisted inside of him, turning his blood to ice. But as she pulled back her fist for another blow, Dean's mind suddenly quieted.

He barely felt the crack of bone on bone as the shifter endeavored to knock him cold. He ignored the lingering memory of Ron falling to his knees, his trusting eyes going dim and empty. He closed off the bright ache of anger Hendrickson's words about John had triggered in his heart.

He simply moved, years of hunter instinct overcoming pain.

Thrusting upward from his crouched position, Dean grabbed the shifter's leg, shoving her hard and fast against the wall and rising to his feet in one smooth motion. Muscles throbbing, Dean used his body to keep her pinned, grappling to keep her hands away from his aching head. He could feel the silver letter opener pressing against his lower back.

Moving quickly, he grabbed the weapon. With his face so close to the shifter's he could feel her breath on his bruised skin, he captured her desperate eyes with his and plunged the blade into her chest.

He felt her gasp, felt her shake with the shock of silver to her system, watched her eyes—inches from his own—flash in denial before awareness evaporated and the shifter's body went limp. Dean slid with her to the ground, unable for a moment to pull his eyes away from her face.

It was a monster. It was evil. It didn't matter how human it looked. It didn't matter that the sweat from their struggle still beaded on the smooth lines of its face or that the eyes still stared back at him or that the lips were parted with a last gasp of denial.

Evil was evil and this wasn't a _she,_ this was an _it. _A thing. And he'd done his job.

He'd just done it too late to save the one innocent he'd wanted to protect.

A footfall behind him broke his revere. It was only a matter of time, he knew, before Hendrickson's team found him. With an odd sense of relief curling around the knot of dread in his gut, Dean sank to his knees in front of the body of the shifter, slowly raising his arms in surrender. He turned to face whoever had come to take him away.

The flashlight blinded him for a moment, but then he recognized the silhouette behind it.

"Sam?" he whispered, surprise sandwiched between the questions in his tone.

"You okay?" Sam's voice was breathy from exertion, the beam of light dropping from Dean's eyes.

Dean nodded and began to push to his feet. The pain in his groin had faded to a dull ache but his movement lit it up again. He gasped, swaying. Sam's fingers wrapped around his bicep, tightening and pulling at him.

"C'mon," Sam hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't have much time."

Dean allowed his brother to tug him upright; he stumbled away from the dead shifter and out of the boiler room. Leaning against the wall of the hallway, directly behind Sam, he paused to make sure no one was approaching from the other direction. Silently, Sam beckoned him forward with a nod of his head and Dean followed, biting hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing out loud. His body thrummed with the rhythm of bruises, strained muscles, and regret.

They turned the corner and the sight that met Dean's eyes took him a moment to compute. Two men in full S.W.A.T. gear lay unconscious, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Dean shot a glance at Sam, unsure what his eyes were telling him.

Sam crouched next to the head of one man, looking up at Dean, anxiety clear in his expression. Dean knew what his brother was asking, knew what they needed to do, but he was having a hard time registering the fact that while he'd been fighting a woman—a woman with super-strength, yes, but still—his little brother had taken out _two_ armed S.W.A.T. team members.

Jerking his head to the side in an impatient order to follow, Sam lifted the shoulders of one unconscious man and began to drag him to a small broom closet just beyond where they'd fallen. Taking a steadying breath, Dean grabbed the other man by the ankles and followed his brother through the doorway. His hands moving with quick precision, Sam began to strip his captive's clothes and gear.

Nodding, agreeing with his brother's logic, and more than a little pissed at himself for not thinking the same thing, Dean crouched, wincing at the tug of sore muscles along his belly and thighs, and began to pull the gear from his S.W.A.T. guy. In moments, they'd reduced the two unconscious cops to their skivvies and had donned their uniforms—pulling the gear over their own clothes with the exception of their long-sleeved shirts. Dean tossed his into the corner and watched as Sam shrugged and did the same.

It wasn't as if the Feds didn't know who they were. Leaving behind a small bit of DNA wasn't going to make much of a difference.

Habit had Dean checking the clip of his weapon and automatically flicking the safety on before pulling the ski mask down over his face. Voices were approaching from the south end of the building. Meeting his brother's eyes through the mask, Dean nodded once, then turned, heading back the way they'd come—toward the boiler room. More men were collecting in the hall both behind and in front of them.

Shoulders set, breathing even, Dean flicked his fingers once at his side, indicating Sam should follow him. He headed directly to the boiler room, his weapon pressed into his shoulder, barrel lowered. An African American man dressed in a dark suit with posture so tight it screamed Government Agent was standing in the center of the room glowering at the body of the shifter and the two cops that flanked her. Sam rotated, his back to Dean's, his weapon covering the other end of the hall.

As another man approached the room, Dean took a step back, signaling to Sam with a lift his chin that the room was clear—in case anyone was watching. Sam nodded and began to move away from the wall, his role played well.

"Sir?" The man who entered the room addressed the angry face of the Agent. "My team said it's secure. They're gone."

"You tell your team to tear it apart."

Dean froze mid-step. He knew that voice.

"The ducts, the ceilings, the furnace, everything."

_Hendrickson_.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Dean took another look at the agent who'd made it his mission to know all about Dean's life and had still managed to get it all wrong.

"I don't think that's necessary." The other cop shook his head.

Hendrickson frowned. "Why not?"

As the cop led Hendrickson from the boiler room, Dean and Sam folded themselves into the crowd of S.W.A.T. members, slipping through the halls to an unprotected exit. Silently, taking the steps two at a time, they hustled in unison from the rear of the bank into the cold of the winter morning, the steel-plated sky glaring down on them with silent accusation. They hustled to the parking garage where they'd left the Impala parked a lifetime ago.

Or yesterday.

Dropping behind the wheel, Dean waited until Sam slammed the passenger door shut then pushed the suffocating mask to the crest of his forehead, pulling in the cold, still air from the interior of the Impala into his quaking lungs.

He didn't look at his brother. He didn't need to.

"We are so screwed," he verified softly.

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The morning light was tight around them, drawing every passing car, every building, every heavily-bundled pedestrian into sharp focus. Sam felt himself breathing shallowly, as if the sound of his lungs expanding might draw attention to them. They'd been forced to fly under the radar before when they were young, but John had always been with them. Sam had always been relatively shielded from the fear that they were two beats from being separated forever.

Dean shifted stiffly in the seat next to him; a small grunt of pain that Sam was positive his brother hadn't realized was audible leaked out between clenched teeth. Sam glanced over, tearing his eyes from his surveillance of the passing geography. Dean gripped the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline—the one thing keeping him grounded in the safety of _now_.

"You okay?" Sam asked, the sound of his own voice in the quiet confines of the Impala making his skin jump.

Dean lifted his chin slightly by way of an answer.

Sam looked closer; he could see a red mark on his brother's cheekbone, framing his eye—marks of knuckles that would inevitably fade to purple and yellow bruises. He'd not taken time to absorb much beyond _shifter dead_ when he'd hurried back to retrieve his brother and get the hell out of there.

Flexing his right hand, Sam looked down at the black-clad appendage. Dean had cut the cast free not more than a week ago. The skin that had been covered by the plaster had been pale, flakey, and he'd scratched it for almost a full day. But it felt strong.

Strong enough to take out two S.W.A.T. guys. On his own.

Dean turned a sharp right, sending Sam against the passenger door.

"Sorry."

He wasn't, Sam knew. It was just lip-service to cover _I can't think of what to do next. _Sam didn't have any answers at the moment, either, but _Dean_ not knowing what to do torqued up Sam's anxiety to an almost visible level. Things had been bad before. St. Louis had rattled them. Baltimore had been rough. But it had never been this bad. It had never been this close.

"That guy…the suit in the boiler room," Sam started.

"Hendrickson," Dean provided, his voice like ground gravel.

"He was the agent you talked to?"

Dean nodded.

"And he," Sam swallowed, "he knew about us?"

Dean took a left. Sam was completely lost; the only thing he was sure of was that they were still, unfortunately, in Milwaukee. Dean was doing his level-best to get out of the city without using any main roads.

"He knew about Dad?"

"He didn't know shit about Dad."

The anger riding the surface of Dean's words brought Sam's head up. He turned, focusing his full attention on Dean.

"What did he say to you, man?"

Dean shook his head once and Sam saw his eyes slide to the side-view mirror. Instead of answering, Dean pulled the ski mask completely off his head and tossed it in the back seat. Tucking one hand under his arm, he pulled a glove free using his bicep as a grip, then alternated with the other hand.

"We gotta ditch this gear."

Sam looked down at the vest, large, white letters across the front proclaiming what they weren't.

"Some of it might come in handy," he offered.

"No," Dean shook his head. "We ditch it."

"Fine," Sam relented, sagging back against the seat and bracing his legs on the floorboards as Dean managed to fit the wide Chevy down an impossibly narrow alley.

Silence sat like a judge between them for another moment until Dean said, "You just get the drop on them, or what?"

Sam looked over, confused. "Huh?"

"Two cops, dude. Down and cuffed. How the hell?"

Sam arched an eyebrow, masking the flutter of worried panic that woke once more at Dean's words. "Jealous?"

Dean's lips twitched and Sam felt the bands encircling his chest ease slightly at that small indication of normalcy.

"Next time," his brother drawled, "you fight the monster; I'll take the cops."

"No thanks," Sam shook his head. "Already had to fight one of those bastards."

"Your hand okay?"

Now at the edge of the city, they approached an empty railroad crossing, the cross bars lowered. Sam felt rather than saw Dean tense up; he echoed the feeling. A frightening scenario immediately shot through Sam's mind: sitting at the crossing, cops pulling up behind them, train in front of them. Trapped and out of options. His gut told him the agent that had found them in the bank wouldn't be stonewalled as easily as the Baltimore police department.

Dean leaned forward. "See a train?"

Sam shook his head, palms sweating as another scenario—this one ending with them as so much scrap metal smeared on the front of a freight engine—filled his head. The tracks were empty, though, as was the road behind and ahead of them.

"I'm going," Dean informed him.

Sam spread his hands flat on his knees, holding very still as Dean threaded the crossbeams, the Impala jostling and bumping across the tracks. Once clear, he felt sweat tickle the back of his neck and shed the ski mask and gloves, tossing his into the back seat with Dean's.

"Hand's fine," he answered Dean's question. "Didn't even really punch them."

"How the hell are they training those guys?" Dean remarked, visibly relaxing as they left Milwaukee in their rear-view mirror and wound their way through the suburbs toward Highway 18. Madison was roughly an hour away, according to the road sign.

Sam shrugged, looking back down at his hand, thinking about how easy it had been to disarm and overpower two presumably highly-trained cops. He swallowed. Dean's quiet confession—_he said I had to save you…and if I couldn't…he said I might have to kill you, Sammy_—never really left Sam's mind. His brother's subsequent promise—to follow through—both chilled and reassured Sam.

Sighing, Sam rubbed his head, stress pushing the edges of his skull against the taut skin. A low thrum was starting up behind his eyes. He hadn't had a vision in months. Not since the Croatoan massacre—as he'd come to think of it.

_What if I'm…changing? Is…strength just part of it all?_

"Don't do that, Sammy."

Sam brought his head up, blinking at his brother in confusion. "Do what?"

"I know what that big brain of yours is thinking." Dean glanced askance at him. "You were trained by a soldier and a hunter. You have instincts. End of story."

Sam didn't know why he was so surprised. When he wasn't tail spinning from grief and pain, Dean had always been able to see right through him.

"But…I mean…," Sam tilted his head, popping his tense neck. "Even _you_ have to admit…that's not really like me."

Dean lifted a shoulder, tilting his head slightly in concession. "True. You totally suck at hand-to-hand."

Sam grimaced.

"But," Dean continued, "you have never let me down. Not once, man."

"How did I—"

"And if you hadn't done what you did? I'd be in some Federal lock-up right now."

Sam frowned. "You'd have gotten away."

"Nah, man." Dean rolled his right arm, wincing at the motion of his shoulder. "That chick kicked my ass. I was done."

Sam took a breath. "Guess you never know what you'll do until you're tested, huh?"

"Exactly," Dean nodded. "So none of this _what am I turning into_ crap, get me?"

Sam couldn't stop the half-grin that ticked up the corner of his mouth. He dropped his eyes to his lap in an effort to disguise the relief of having his brother understand.

"Gotcha."

The first few months after John's death had been hard on Sam, but it had nearly erased Dean. His brother had been flailing, fighting shadows, not sleeping, wired so tight a deep breath practically shattered him. Part of that, Sam knew now, was the secret John had pressed upon him; a weight so great that even now it bowed Dean's shoulders and dogged Sam's every thought.

But most of it stemmed from a truth so thin and fragile Sam could only really see it from the side. It was a hologram of fact that sprang forward in vivid color if Sam stared hard enough. He knew Dean couldn't bring himself to see it, not yet anyway.

It was the truth that screamed that they were alone.

There was no longer a leader, no one to tell them what to do. No coordinates to follow, no approval to seek. The only thing keeping them together now was history and an unspoken agreement to find and kill the demon that had taken their family from them. It was a freedom Sam had craved—not at the cost of his father's life—to simply to be left to his own discretion.

But that freedom was suffocating to Dean.

His brother had been a soldier in someone else's war his entire life and the one battle he'd never won—as far as Sam knew—was the fight to gain his own father's approval. They were in a new world now, on their own with only a scant few friends willing and able to cover their backs. Sam knew Dean walked around the jagged truth that Sam could leave anytime.

He didn't want to, not now. But sometimes Sam had to wonder if being with his brother was just another harsh reminder to Dean of the father he'd lost and the reward he'd never get.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, pulling out of his head and taking a renewed interest in their surroundings.

"It's Friday, right?"

Sam frowned. "Yeah, I think so."

"Middle of the morning—everyone's at school or work."

Sam looked at his brother. "Yeah…so?"

"Hang on," Dean ordered, turning down a residential street to an apartment complex and a gravel alley.

At the end of the alley was a collection of dumpsters. Sam nodded slowly.

"Use the shop towel," Dean instructed, shoving the gear into Park. "Wipe down all prints. Get rid of everything—vest, clothes, belt, the whole nine. Take the weapon apart—completely, every piece—and put them in the dumpsters."

"Got it."

The winter air was frigid; Sam felt the moisture sucked from his skin and mouth, reminding him immediately that it had been over twenty-four hours since they'd eaten or slept. He grabbed long-sleeve shirts from the duffels in the trunk; he heard the pieces of Dean's weapon clank against the inside of the dumpsters. He followed suit, tossing a shirt and jacket to his brother, watching as Dean moved stiffly back toward the Impala, his normally rolling gait lurching unevenly with his limp.

"You mess your knee up or something?" Sam asked.

"Not…exactly," Dean groaned, twisting at the waist to work out the soreness gathering in his muscles.

"What happened?"

"Let's just say…that shifter never heard of the Marquess of Queensberry Rules."

Sam's eyes instinctively bounced down to Dean's groin, then back up. He winced. "Ouch."

"That's putting it mildly."

They climbed back into the car and Sam immediately cranked the heat, rubbing his hands together in front of the vent.

"Now where?"

Dean sighed, pulling away from the apartment buildings. "I don't know, man."

"Want to get some food?"

Dean's stomach growled loudly in response.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sam chuckled.

"Let's get to Madison," Dean suggested. "Farther we are from that guy, the better."

"Maybe we should…I don't know…change our appearance or something," Sam suggested, once more scouring the streets, checking the mirrors, watching for signs of a tail or suspicious activity.

"What, like disguises?"

Sam shrugged, his face heating up. "Maybe."

The grin was evident in Dean's voice, though Sam refused to look at him. "Sure, Sammy. I could die my hair blond with peroxide and you could cut yours short…use a pocket knife, though. Make it authentic."

"Shut up." Sam shook his head and looked out the window. "It was just an idea."

"No, no, I'm with you," Dean said, warming to his theme. "We could go hide out in an abandoned church and read _Gone With the Wind_ until the church burns down 'cause of our cancer sticks."

"We don't smoke."

"Good point."

"Like I said," Sam pouted, his pride marked up a bit by his brother's teasing, "just an idea."

Dean pushed at his shoulder good naturedly. "Relax, man. We didn't have to do that after Baltimore. We're gonna be fine."

Disgruntled, Sam snapped at him. "This is on an _entirely_ different level from Baltimore, Dean. We have no idea if we're gonna be fine!"

He heard Dean's jaw pop as his brother clenched his teeth. "What do you want me to say, Sammy?"

"I don't know!" Sam shouted. "But _saying_ it's gonna be _fine_ doesn't make it true. It was bad enough that you were wanted for murder in St. Louis—"

"I beat that; I died, remember?"

"—and then we had to get _mug shots_ taken in Baltimore," Sam reminded him. "You know we only got out of that by luck."

"I'd like to think it had something to do with our wit and charm," Dean glanced at him.

Sam glared at him.

"Dude, look." Dean tilted his chin down, eyes darting between Sam and the road. "_I_ know we're screwed. _You_ know we're screwed. Since when has talking about being screwed made it any better?"

Sam blinked, seeing the twitch of Dean's mouth as his brother returned his attention to the road. He quieted, accepting Dean's point—however skewed with subversion it might've been—that they weren't going to improve their situation just by beating the facts into the ground.

"Least we don't have to ditch the car," Sam muttered, absentmindedly.

The air around Dean seemed to disappear for a moment. Sam looked over, surprised to see his brother so pale.

"Dean?"

"Don't even joke about that."

Sam held up a hand. "Sorry, I just—"

"We are never ditching her, you understand?" Dean looked quickly at him, then returned his eyes to the road.

"Of course not, Dean," Sam placated. "I only meant…I'm glad this Hendrickson guy never saw her. We wouldn't ditch her."

Dean shook his head. "Damn straight."

Sam swallowed. It was good to have Dean back in the game, doing the job without that bloodlust that had frightened Sam and with a little less of the bone-deep weariness he'd witnessed on more than one occasion. But it didn't take much to remind Sam that his brother was gripping this persona by the fingertips. There was a thin line between Dean and devastation.

And it made Sam wonder why he was different. His desperation was there, was palpable and real, but he never felt as if he was one step away from crashing.

"Might have to change her plates one of these days, though."

Sam nodded carefully, unwilling to agree too quickly.

"Dad had to do that a few times when you were little," Dean informed him.

"I remember."

"We've had this one a long time, though," Dean sighed. "Kinda…I don't know…makes me feel like we have somewhere left to go."

"You mean Lawrence?" Sam asked, unable to keep the snarl from his voice. He never wanted to go back there. That place meant nothing but pain to him.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, everyone has to be from somewhere."

Sam didn't reply. They rode in uncertain silence until they reached the exit for Madison. Dean pulled into a gas station, leaning over to the glove box to pull out a collection of credit cards.

"You remember which one we used in Milwaukee?"

"Ezra Gamble," Sam replied.

"Right," Dean nodded, flipping that card back into the stack. "How about Jerry Kaplan? Haven't seen him in awhile."

He grinned disarmingly at Sam who rolled his eyes in return.

"Whatever, dude, just hurry up. I'm starving."

The door of the Impala opened with a creak and Dean flipped him a smart-assed salute before circling around to the back of the car and to fill it up with gas. He left the door open allowing the bite of air to crystallize the interior of the car.

"Jerk," Sam muttered, sliding across the car and pulling the door shut.

As he did, he caught the image of a police car rolling up to a pump across the way. He shot a look at Dean over his shoulder and saw that his brother had turned his back to the cruiser, the collar of his jacket popped to both protect him from the wind and shield his face from a clear view.

Using Jerry Kaplan's credit card to pay at the gas pump, Dean returned to the wheel and started up the Chevy, pulling away from the gas station without a word. Sam felt anxiety beating a syncopated rhythm on the backbeat of each breath he took. There was virtually nowhere they could go that they wouldn't run into cops. And there was no guarantee that this Agent Hendrickson hadn't flooded every police station in Wisconsin with their pictures and descriptions.

"Gotta be someplace to eat outside of town," Dean said quietly.

Sam nodded. He'd gone this long without food—another hour wouldn't kill him. Needing to dispel the tense quiet, Sam fished around in the box of cassette tapes Dean had salvaged from the wreckage and popped the first one he found into the player, turning the volume up to just beneath burst-ear-drum level.

Dean shot him a look of surprise. "Dude, Iron Maiden?"

"It could be Simon and Garfunkel for all I care," Sam yelled over the scream of guitars. _Just need something else in my head besides my own voice._

Dean's frown was fierce. "I'd rather go to Federal prison."

"_Far away from the land of our birth, we fly a flag in some foreign earth. We sailed away like our fathers before; these colors don't run from cold bloody war…."_

They drove on, leaving Madison behind them and following Highway 18 to the next point on the road. It had started to snow several miles back and the large flakes flung themselves against the windshield, coating it until Dean was forced to turn on the wipers to see his way clear. Sam could feel the wind push against the large machine, enhancing the floating effect.

Turning the volume down slightly so that he wasn't screaming, Dean said, "What'd you tell your friends about Dad?"

Sam shot a look at him. "What? What friends?"

"I mean when you were at Stanford. What did you tell them he did?"

Sam looked away, guilt turning his gut cold, his heart heavy. "Why?"

"Something that dick Hendrickson said…made me think about how all our stories just…," Dean rolled his bottom lip against his teeth. "I mean he had all the right facts but had put the picture together all wrong. Y'know?"

"Who's gonna put the _right_ picture together, Dean?" Sam challenged him. "Who would ever believe the truth about Dad? About how we lived?"

"People we've helped," Dean replied. "People who've seen what's really out there."

"Not like we have reunions or anything, man. We help them, we move on. End of story."

Shaking his head slowly, Dean turned the car into the sloped entrance of a truck stop and diner. The music cut off mid-lyric when he shut off the car. Turning slightly in his seat, Dean met Sam's gaze, his eyes heavy with everything he wasn't saying. Sam waited, expecting details, a reveal of Hendrickson's words, but instead Dean's eyes went flat, action and duty canceling need.

"We eat, we find a place to crash for a few hours, and then we figure out what to do next."

Sam nodded in agreement. "We gotta lay low for awhile, Dean. A hunt right now…," he let his tone trail off.

Dean worried his lip a bit more. "Haven't been to Bobby's in awhile."

"Good idea." Sam stepped out of the car, his mind on options, coming up with few.

Snow had begun to accumulate on the ground and along the front grill of the Impala. Sam watched it dust his brother's short hair and collect on his lashes in the short time it took to walk from the car to the diner's entrance. They walked in, stomping their boots clear of snow and ruffling it from their hair with a quick swipe of fingers.

Dean flashed two fingers at a hostess who looked as if time had pulled the skin of her face loose and neglected to fold it back up again. The weight of it dragged the corners of her mouth down into a bored frown, though her brown eyes were bright as they raked over Dean and tracked down the length of Sam's body.

He felt his face heat up under her sharp gaze. She grabbed two menus and led them to a booth. Dean tipped his head toward the restrooms and Sam nodded back, sliding into the booth as Dean continued past. He ordered two coffees and picked up the menu, his mouth practically watering as he contemplated the sparse offerings.

"Hey, George," called a smoke-ravaged voice sitting at the coffee bar. Sam instinctively looked over, eyes catching on a gray-haired man in overalls with a green John Deer hat shoved to the back of his head. The man was looking at the small TV situated over the coffee makers. "Turn that up, will yas?"

"Since when d'ja care about the news, Charlie?" George, Sam presumed, replied, reaching up and cranking a tiny knob to the right.

"Yous all see that crazy shit—er, 'scuse me—stuff last night in Milwaukee?" Charlie asked him.

Sam's fingers went numb. The menu slapped against the Formica table top as he stared at the news report. On TV, a woman stood in front of the City Bank of Milwaukee, pale daylight surrounding her and causing her to squint as the wind and snow slapped her styled hair against her cheek. He couldn't make out what she was saying over the sound of the men at the counter.

"Some lunatic took a buncha hostages at that bank yesterday; killed three they said," Charlie continued.

"You don't say," George replied, turning the volume up more.

Sam zeroed in on the report, watching as the shot faded from the female news reporter and "Bank Robber: Milwaukee, WI" appeared in the lower left corner, "Recorded Earlier" in the upper right. Unconsciously, Sam rubbed his forehead, his eyes burning with denial.

The female reporter's voice was tinny through the speakers, but it didn't matter: the effect was sufficient.

_"We're here downtown in front of the City Bank of Milwaukee, and though a short exchange of weapons fire occurred just minutes ago, police and S.W.A.T. teams maintain position as we enter the third hour of this intense standoff."_

The camera bounced slightly as the news team became aware of action at the front of the bank. Sam could hear the voice of the security guard Dean had been leading out to get medical help call out to the myriad of police.

_"No, don't shoot, don't shoot!"_

And then he saw him. Dean's face was tight with fear—fear like Sam had not seen on his brother's face since they found out that Meg was holding John captive. He saw then the realization of how much trouble they were in settling against Dean's shoulders, crashing down on his brother like a judge's gavel.

_"No, no, no, don't even think about it! Get the hell back!"_ Dean shouted at the cops, pushing the security guard in front of him with one hand, a rifle clutched in his other.

Sam hadn't been there—he'd been heading back into the bank, searching for the shifter. He trembled slightly inside, unable to tear his eyes away as the image returned to daylight and the freezing reporter outside the scene of the crime. She continued speaking, but Sam could barely register the words.

Dean's smart-assed, lip-puckered mug shot flashed up on the screen followed by images of an African American male, the female shifter, and Ronald. Sam rubbed his face. All of them—they were blaming all three deaths on Dean.

_"The suspect was last seen fleeing the scene dressed as a S.W.A.T. officer. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous."_

The image of Dean emerging from the bank behind the security guard returned, the frame freezing on his profile. Where Sam saw only fear in that expression, others, he knew, would see danger.

_"If you have any information on this man, call the number you see on your screen here."_

George _tsk_ed, his tongue clicking against his teeth loudly. "That boy's gonna have all of Wisconsin on his ass," he muttered.

"Yeah," Charlie nodded as George turned down the volume. "He ain't got nowhere to run."

It took until that moment for Sam to register one key fact: they hadn't once mentioned him. Dean had told him Hendrickson knew about both of them, but the news report had focused only on Dean. Rubbing his face, Sam looked back up at the TV, but the news had moved on to other stories. His eyes caught those of the hostess, though, and he felt his heart trip slightly.

She was watching him, sliding her gaze carefully from their booth back toward the restroom.

_She knows_, Sam thought desperately.

As casually as possible, he stood, smiled innocently at the keen-eyed woman, and ambled back to the restroom. Once in the alcove, he slapped his hand against the door, hissing is brother's name in a stage whisper.

"Dean!"

A toilet flushed.

"Dean!"

"Jesus, Sammy, what the hell?"

Dean's voice drifted toward him from the back of the row of stalls. Passing the urinals and the carefully averted eyes of the truckers standing there, Sam followed the sound.

"We gotta go. Now."

Dean exited a stall, his eyes worried, his gaze shooting up and over Sam's shoulder.

"What is it?"

"_Now_." Sam stressed.

Nodding, Dean moved past him, heading for the restroom door. Pushing it open, he snuck his head around the edge, looking toward the front.

"You see a back door?" he asked Sam.

"No." Sam was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet from anxiety.

"Hey," said a man standing at the sink.

Dean and Sam turned to look at him.

"Thataway," the man informed them, jerking his head to the side. "Past the coolers."

"Thanks," Dean replied, then led the way, Sam close on his heels.

They didn't question the help; they simply took it and the escape it offered. Leaving hefty tracks in the snow as they jogged toward the Impala, they pulled out of the parking lot with Iron Maiden's scream loud enough to cover their fear-laced heartbeats.

www

Dean's hands flexed on the steering wheel; he tried to calm his racing pulse. The daylight was weak; watered-down sunshine giving way to the darkness of the growing storm. He'd turned northwest when they left the diner, picking up I-94 in hopes that the Interstate would be clearer from the apparently state-wide snowstorm.

The music beat against his skull, distracting him, but Dean didn't want to release the wheel long enough to turn it down. Snow coated the windshield between swishes of the wiper blade and the wind, that had nearly knocked Sam off his feet as they ran to the car, beat against the Impala from all sides, turning her into a giant zamboni.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Sam dividing his attention between the mirrors and the road ahead, his body leaning forward in an unconscious indication of how badly he wanted to keep moving, get away, turn invisible. It shook Dean how vulnerable he felt; after all they'd done, all they'd survived it seemed unfair that they would be in danger of getting caught like this.

Correction, _he_ was in danger of getting caught. His face, his name was plastered all over Channel 8 news as a murderer. Not Sam's.

"Friggin' _cops_ killed Ron," Dean muttered, unable to help himself. "Even a rookie in ballistics should be able to tell that."

"Hendrickson wants people to catch you, not sympathize with you," Sam pointed out.

"Dick." Dean shook his head slightly, remembering the look of relief and gratitude on Ronald's face when Dean confirmed that, while not a Mandroid, what they were after was indeed unnatural. "This wrong place, wrong time stuff sucks ass. _Hendrickson_ sucks ass."

"You said he knew about me," Sam said once more.

"Bonnie to my Clyde," Dean said by way of answer.

"So how come they didn't show my pic—"

"Because this bastard's got a hard on for me, man," Dean muttered. "Said he's made it his business to know all about me."

"He only knows the lies, Dean," Sam replied, his resistance automatic.

"He knows enough," Dean muttered.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked, his voice losing years as it slipped between the tracks of music and finding a home in Dean's heart.

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't.

There had always been somewhere to go next; a mission, a job, a hunt. There had always been a way to avoid detection. But before…there had also been someone to lead the way, to bark the orders, to focus them. Sam was right; they'd been lucky in Baltimore. If it hadn't been for Ballard seeing the truth, if it hadn't been for her sympathy and understanding, Sheridan would have killed him and Sam would be in prison.

"Dean?"

Taking a breath, and releasing it a heartbeat at a time, Dean was finally able to unclench his hands and turn down the music. It was his turn to lead the way; Sam needed a beacon now just as surely as Dean had needed it all those years before.

"We go to ground," he said. "Just like before. You remember Utah?"

Sam frowned. "Utah?"

"The cabin?"

"Dude, I was twelve."

"Old enough," Dean informed him. "We get out of Wisconsin, stock up, find some place and hole up for a week or two. Just like in Utah."

"What about going to Bobby's?"

"We'll call him when we surface," Dean decided. "We need to be gone long enough that they start looking farther away. Mexico. Canada."

"But we aren't going farther away?"

"In this weather? We're gonna be lucky to get to Minnesota."

"So, no hunts," Sam said, as if needing to establish parameters in his mind. "No looking for the demon."

"Not until we've shaken Hendrickson loose, man," Dean said. "We can't risk it…right?"

"I know. But…kinda seems like sometimes…hunts just find us."

"Be hard to find us in the middle of nowhere," Dean muttered grimly.

They drove on, taking an exit for Highway 10 after passing a cop. The road was all-but deserted; people having more sense than to get out in the middle of a snowstorm.

Dean pulled out of a slight skid and narrowed his eyes at an almost snow-covered sign. "Look—20 miles to someplace called Lethe, Minnesota."

"Christ, it's windy," Sam muttered.

Dean gripped the wheel once more, working to see through the increasing snow. By the time he saw a red and blue neon sign through the blur, it was almost completely dark.

"What's that?"

"Looks like a…Quick Shop? Maybe?" Sam replied, eyes narrowed as he peered through the weather.

Dean pulled over, stopping outside the brick building, peering at the blinking lights in the window advertising milk, beer, and lotto tickets.

"I'll go," Sam offered.

"'S okay, I got this," Dean replied, reaching over the back of the seat to the floor behind him. He grabbed the gloves and ski mask he'd tossed back there, pulling them on and covering his entire face, save his eyes.

Sam folded his lips down in appreciation. Dean grinned behind the mask.

"Be right back."

He stumbled from the car, bending slightly to keep from being knocked over by the wind. Grasping the entry bar, he pulled the door toward him, using it to leverage himself inside.

"Damn," he muttered, shaking the snow from his eyelashes.

"You nuts? What the hell you doin' on the road in this?" exclaimed the clerk from his perch behind the counter.

Dean looked over taking note of the man's white hair and wide shoulders before he saw the paper in the man's hands. His picture graced the front page.

_You gotta be kidding me._

"Just trying to get a few things before we find a place to pull over," Dean said, lifting a gloved hand in a dismissive, _don't mind me_ gesture. "Be out of your hair in a minute."

Keeping the ski mask in place, he grabbed as many random supplies as he could as quickly as he could and headed to the counter. It wouldn't last them long; he'd have to find another place to stock up before they fell off the grid completely.

"You better get off the road soon, kid," the clerk informed him. "Looks to be going from bad to worse."

"Thanks," Dean nodded at him, gathering the sacks by the plastic handles and heading back out of the door. The wind pushed at him, knocking him against the hood of the Impala before he was able to push his way to the door and safely inside.

"Son of a bitch!" He exclaimed, closing the door behind him and thrusting the bags into Sam's lap. "It's like Hoth out there."

Sam dropped the bags over the back seat and obligingly turned the heat up. "Let's just make sure one of us doesn't get stuffed into the belly of a Ton-ton."

Dean yanked the ski mask from his face and tossed it to the floor at Sam's feet. "Funny," he said, rubbing his short hair and dragging his hands down his cold face.

"What'd you get?" Sam asked, peering into the plastic bags.

"Not enough," Dean complained, sliding the gear to Reverse and pulling out. He told Sam about the newspaper.

"Dude works fast, I'll give him that," Sam muttered, slouching low in the seat.

"I got a bad feeling about this guy, Sammy. This isn't the last we've seen of him."

"Yeah, well," Sam grumbled, his fingers pulling at his lower lip. "Next time let's make sure it's on our terms."

They drove into the storm, Dean's arms and back aching from the effort of keeping the big Chevy on the road. Sam called out when they crossed the state line, but Dean drove on. He could feel the agent's breath on his neck, his words teasing like a lure on a fishing line. Dean knew it served no purpose, letting the man's arrogance trigger him. But the smug attitude of assumption wrapped around each of Hendrickson's words had Dean's jaw line tight, his muscles there coiling beneath his skin.

"Whoa!" Dean cried as the Chevy slipped on the slicked road, her headlights bouncing off of the blowing snow rather than cutting through it.

"You okay?"

"Hang on to something, Sammy."

"Think we should pull over?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere!"

"No, no. I got this."

"Dean—she's sliding…Dean!"

He turned into the skid, trying to correct the Impala's spin, but the elements worked against him. It felt as if the blizzard reached out, grabbed his car, and tossed her off the main road. They bounced across the embankment, the Impala's headlights picking up the hulking shape of what could only be trees.

Dean stood on the brake pedal with both feet, turning the wheel to the left as hard as he could, his will a living thing that sprang from his chest and flung itself between the metal of the car and the improbable fate of a wooden death. They rocked to an abrupt, harsh stop, Dean's chest crashing against the steering wheel as the resounding _crack_ of Sam's head against the dash filled the interior of the car.

For a moment neither of them moved.

The radio played on, the engine hummed, heat wrapped around them.

"Sam?" Dean whispered. He pushed gingerly away from the steering wheel with a grunt of pain, his chest whimpering from the impact. "Sammy, you okay?"

He heard Sam's groan and reached over to tentatively ease his brother back away from the dash. Wincing, he turned Sam's face toward him.

"When I said…we should pull over…," Sam muttered, the wan light from the dash illuminating his tight features, "I really thought…it would hurt less."

"Lemme see," Dean ordered, shifting a knee up on the seat to leverage himself for a better look at Sam's head. He hissed. "You got yourself a goose egg there, kiddo."

"And a headache to match it."

"I got ibuprofen at the Quick Shop," Dean informed him brightly.

"Oh, goody."

Sighing, Dean wiped condensation from the interior of the window. "We didn't hit the trees."

"Lucky us."

Squaring his shoulders, Dean shifted the gear into Reverse, pressing on the gas. The sound of spinning tires filled the interior of the car. He tried Drive. No luck.

"Would it help if I got out and pushed?" Sam asked, the palm of his hand against his eyebrow.

"It might," Dean replied, shooting his brother a look. "Use the gloves and ski mask."

"I was kinda kidding," Sam pouted, pulling the protective covering on.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't."

Sam muttered something under his breath, exiting the car in a flurry of frenzied snow. Dean opened his door a crack to be able to hear his brother call out. Dimly, he heard Sam shout _go_ and he pressed on the gas. Sam's cries of _stop, stop, stop_ were audible over the spinning tires and Dean shoved the gear into Park.

Gasping for breath over the sound of the wind, Sam went to his knees in the doorway of the driver's side.

"We're wedged against a snow bank, man," he informed Dean. "We're not getting out until we can move that snow."

Dean nodded. "Get in here and warm up," he ordered. "I'll get the spare blankets from the trunk."

Sam nodded wearily and staggered around the front of the car. Dean saw Sam climb into the back seat as he blindly made his way to the trunk, grabbing the extra blankets, coats, and towels from the duffels, his hands shaking from cold, his body aching.

He climbed back behind the wheel, tossing Sam some blankets. "We're not going to be able to keep the car running all night, so bundle up."

"When you said go to ground," Sam grunted as he wrapped the blankets around his chilled body, "I had something totally different in mind."

Dean pulled on a third jacket, tucking the towels around his cold legs. "Look at it this way," he said, cranking the heat for a moment, "no way Hendrickson is gonna find us in the middle of blizzard in BFE Minnesota."

"Buried in snow off the side of the road."

"Exactly."

Putting his back to the driver's side door, Dean looked over the back of the seat and met Sam's eyes staring back from the opposite direction. The bruise on Sam's forehead was going to be impressive, but his brother's eyes were bright and aware. Dean pressed a hand against his own chest, willing the ache to ease. Instead, it simply rolled into the other aches and twinges his abused body was working to combat thanks to the ninja skills of a now-dead shapeshifter.

"You still sore?" Sam asked after a moment.

Dean rubbed his chest. "I'll live."

"You hungry?"

"Understatement."

Sam dug into the plastic bags, pulling out the ibuprofen first. Handing Dean four, he dug deeper into the bags. "Water, good. Jerky, okay. Dude, Hostess pie? Really?"

"I was in a hurry." Dean held his hand out for the pie.

"Beer, of course. Corn chips? We are gonna have some awesome breath."

"Hey, I also got toilet paper and toothpaste."

"What else is there in life?"

Sam popped a tab from a beer and handed one to Dean, taking another for himself. Turning the radio up, Dean finished the pie and motioned for Sam to hand him some jerky.

"Twenty minutes and I gotta shut her off. Need to make sure we got enough juice to get out of this in the morning."

Sam nodded, his eyes far away. Dean could tell his brother was listening to the music still rolling from the Impala's speakers. Dean tapped his fingers along with Iron Maiden as the band worked their way across the chords.

"_Just for a second a glimpse of my father I see, and in a movement he beckons to me. And in a moment the memories are all that remain, and all the wounds are reopening again…."_

"Hey," Sam said suddenly. "Did you mean what you said about Dad?"

Dean finished his beer and reached for another. "Which time?"

"When you said he was an ass," Sam replied. "I've never heard you call him that before."

Dean blinked, surprised. "You remember that? You were three sheets, dude."

"I remember," Sam said, starting his second beer. "I remember your promise, too."

"So you've told me."

"But did you mean it? What you called him?"

Dean sighed. "I meant it at the time. Did I mean it forever? No."

"You were mad at him, though."

Dean looked at his brother. "Yeah, I was mad at him."

"Why?" Sam folded his brows together. Dean watched him tap out three pills from the bottle of ibuprofen and swallow it with his beer.

"What do you mean, 'why'? I told you what he said to me."

"I mean…he was always asking you to do stuff you didn't want to, but you still always did it."

Dean crumpled his second can and reached for a third. "Like what?"

Sam shrugged. "Well…like…taking care of me."

Dean arched a brow. "How hard'd you hit your head anyway?"

"I'm serious, Dean."

"So am I. I _wanted_ to take care of you, Sam. I was never mad at Dad for asking me to do that."

Sam looked away, quiet for a moment. "I guess…I just always figured I was…a weight on you."

"Sammy…you dumbass." Dean shook his head. "Why'd you think I came back to get you when Dad disappeared, huh?"

Sam lifted a shoulder, not answering.

"Taking care of you, watching out for you…man, that's never been the problem. The _problem_ was Dad knowing something and pulling that 'need to know' bullshit and _then_ giving me just enough information to scare the shit out of me before he…," Dean clenched his jaw at the memory, "traded himself to a demon in exchange for me. He was an ass for putting that on me—on _us_—without giving us anything else to go on."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam muttered, eyes still on the white world outside.

They were quiet for a moment. Dean kept his eyes on Sam, waiting. When his brother didn't reveal what else was obviously twisting him up inside, Dean took a breath.

"What are you really asking, Sam?"

"Why are you staying with me, Dean?" Sam looked at him then, his eyes like wounds in a face too young to have lived through as much as he had. "I mean…why don't you just…leave?"

"Leave?" Dean felt the weight of that word like an anvil on his heart, pressing down to the point of rupturing it. "Why the hell would I leave?"

"I'm like some…ticking bomb, man. We don't know what's going to happen to me, we don't know when." Sam's face was hollowed out with the worry that had been haunting him, Dean realized, since he'd been told the truth. "All we know is that it's gonna be bad—bad enough Dad made you _promise_ to kill me rather than let me…go there. And now…on top of all that, we've got this Federal Agent after us—"

"—after _me_," Dean corrected.

"Exactly my point. After _you_. And if you didn't have me to worry about, you could disappear." Sam pressed his lips together for a moment, shaking his head. "I know you, man. Just like Dad, you could turn into a ghost and Hendrickson would never find you. If you were alone."

"Listen to me." Dean held his brother's eyes, his voice low, his tone as serious as he could make it without sounding angry. "You're my brother. We're all we've got. No deathbed prediction is going to shake me loose, you get me? Not after…," Dean looked down at the beer can in his hand.

Glancing out through the snow-blind window, Dean let his mind scroll back, opening boxes in his memory that had been categorized and closed. Remembering was one of the most painful things he ever had to do.

"We've been through too much, man." Dean said softly. "So much worse than this. So much more than some…some piss-ant Federal Agent and his…agenda. You think Hendrickson could have handled Gordon? How about staking Angela in her grave before she zombiefied anyone else? Think he could have handled that?"

"No," Sam replied.

"No. No he couldn't. He couldn't have handled Constance Welch or the striga. He'd have pissed his pants if he'd gone up against that freaky-assed scarecrow or the hookman. And don't get me started on that yellow-eyed bastard."

Sam nodded when Dean paused to take a breath.

"_We_ have a job to do, Sam. Don't lose that. That demon bastard…he's _our_ job. He took out _our_ family. And he's still out there."

"Yeah," Sam whispered, somewhat reluctantly.

"We do this together, Sam. It's _always been _us, okay? I'm not going to let a little glitch in the system keep me from doing my job. And…," he sighed, rubbing his sore chest and burrowing deeper into the layers of coats. "And I made a promise."

"To kill me," Sam whispered.

"To save you," Dean countered, his eyebrows up, his gaze unwavering.

Sam rubbed his forehead gingerly. Dean sighed, allowing exhaustion to expose a level of vulnerability that rarely—if ever—saw the light of day.

"Shoot, Sammy," Dean said softly, letting his eyes slide away from Sam to rest on nothing. "Who else can I talk to except you?"

"You don't really talk to _me_," Sam replied, his tone matching Dean's.

Dean looked back at him. "Yeah. I do."

Sam's chin trembled slightly and he glanced away.

"What about you, Sam?"

"What do you mean, what about me?"

"Well," Dean tossed the third can down to the floor with the others. "You're saddled with a big brother who is a wanted fugitive. You could walk away clean. Can't pick our family, right? Isn't that what Ballard told you?"

"She was just—"

"Why are _you_ staying, Sam?" Dean interrupted, holding his eyes steady.

Sam shrugged, his smile sad. "You're my brother, Dean."

"And that's a good enough reason?"

Sam took a breath; Dean instinctively braced for Sam's honesty. "It is for now."

Dean looked down, not willing to let Sam see his instinctive reaction. Sam never blurted anything out; he always thought about how the person he spoke to would hear his words. His brother's honesty had a unique way of cutting into Dean, leaving a mark that took awhile to seal up.

"Well, then. There you go. We're stuck with each other."

He reached over and turned off the engine. The storm outside immediately filled the ensuing quiet with a high-pitched whistle of wind and the _tap tap tap_ of snow pellets against the windows. They sat in the dark, the unspoken worries too numerous to push aside.

And then Sam began to hum. Dean's brows pulled together as he listened; his brother didn't have the greatest ear for music. After a moment, though, Dean heard Sam pick up the words.

"When you think that we've used all our chances, and the chance to make everything right…." Sam's singing voice was soft and unsure, never really committing to the tune, but making the effort, Dean knew, because it was a way to say_ I'm still here with you_.

Smiling appreciatively, Dean joined in. "Keep on making the same old mistakes. Makes untipping the balance so easy. When we're living our lives on the edge, say a prayer on the book of the dead."

He quieted then, listening as Sam sang softly, "We're blood brothers…we're blood brothers…."

When Sam trailed off, Dean shrugged lower in his jackets. "Get some sleep, Sam."

Sam didn't reply for a moment, but then he heard a soft, "Night, Dean."

www

He'd been dreaming about vampires.

He could still feel the strength in the grip that had held him fast—as if the creature's muscles had been strung over bars of iron. He could still see the look in his father's eyes as he'd used a precious bullet to save Sam's life. It wasn't unusual, having dreams about monsters. But it always rattled him and it left him feeling young and exposed when he finally pulled free of the dream, disoriented, sweaty, and afraid.

Sam didn't know what woke him. It was as if he caught the dying edge of a shout or heard someone call his name. It took him almost a full minute to remember why he was bent sideways in the back seat of the Impala. The sun was almost too bright as it cut through the rear window, as if it was being somehow amplified. Realization seeped in, tempering the suffocating remnants of the dream.

Pushing up to his elbow, he realized that he'd been covered in more than just the blankets from last night: the extra towels that had been wrapped around Dean's legs were tucked around his shoulders.

"Dean?"

When no response—grumpy or otherwise—greeted him, Sam sat all the way up, discovering quickly that he was alone in the car. The rest of the food was spread out on the front seat and Sam saw that the toothpaste had been opened. Pushing the blankets from his shoulders, Sam exhaled in the frigid car, his breath creating a tiny cloud in the air in front of his face.

He started to open the back door, surprised when he couldn't budge it. Knowing Dean got out somehow, he flipped carefully over the back of the seat, pushing the driver's side door open. He was able to get it wide enough to slip sideways through the crack into the cold morning, the sun's reflection on the snow dazzling his eyes.

"Dean!"

"Mornin', sunshine," his brother's voice echoed in the eerie, snow-dampened silence.

Rotating, Sam looked around, unable to find the source of Dean's voice at first. As he did, his heart fell inside of him, bouncing off the toes of his boots and landing somewhere around his belt. Everywhere he looked was blanketed by snow. Trees were bent with the weight of it, branches meeting drifts like catapults just before launch.

The road was gone—the definition of asphalt and earth smoothed out by snow. Drifts sloped upwards like miniature ski jumps, the crystallized flakes winking at him brilliantly. Sam turned, hooking one arm on the barely opened door and the roof of the Impala and gaped: their car was nearly buried.

Snow drifted up to the middle of the passenger door, covering the hood and flowed just about even from the opposite side of the car to the ground in one large swoop.

_We are so screwed._

"Sam!"

He whipped his head around, finding Dean's voice as he called from the trunk of the Impala.

"Could use some help here."

Sam slogged through the drift, shutting the door behind him. Snow tumbled into the top of his boots, pressing against his jeans, and chilling his legs almost instantly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Dean straightened, his face red from exertion and cold, his gloved hands caked with snow. He put one hand on the trunk, the other on his chest as he caught his breath.

"Makin' a fort!" he called back sarcastically. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Sam shrugged. "Looks like you're…makin' a fort."

"Gotta dig out the exhaust if I'm going to try to get her started," Dean explained. "Unless you want to asphyxiate."

"Get her started?" Sam repeated, looking around. Stuck solid against a snow bank, half buried in drifts, they were going nowhere fast.

"Don't know about you, man, but I'm freezing my bruised nuts off out here. I want to turn the heat on."

"Oh," Sam nodded, understanding.

"Get the other pair of gloves and clear a path at the front—gotta be able to pull air into the engine."

"Got it," Sam nodded, trying to narrow his thinking to one task and not be knocked flat by the fear of _what the hell are we gonna do now_.

It took him nearly an hour to clear out a pocket of space in front of the Impala's grill using his hands. By the time he was done, he was shaking from exertion, his hands crimped and frozen, his lungs screaming from breathing in the frigid air. He pushed himself upright, his lower back protesting with a kidney punch, and looked for Dean.

His brother had managed to unbury the rear of the car enough to open the trunk. He could hear Dean's harsh gasps and grunts of effort as he gathered supplies. Ordering himself to move, Sam made his way around the side of the car, snow still thigh-high, and joined Dean at the trunk.

"Take this," Dean said, shoving a duffel into his arms.

"What is it?"

"Just take it and get inside. Gotta warm up."

Sam blinked at his brother; Dean's nose and cheeks were sunburned, his lips chaffed and cracking and sweat rolled down the side of his face.

"How long were you out here before I woke up?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Dunno. An hour maybe?"

Sam shook his head, then made his way back to the driver's door, wedging the duffel into the opening, then following it inside. Dean was at his heels. The moment he was behind the wheel, he turned the key in the ignition. Sam found himself whispering a prayer.

The car started, cold air pouring from the vent.

"Give her a minute," Dean said, turning the radio off and the fan down to low. "She's cold, too."

Sam stomped his snow-covered feet, trying to get some feeling back into his toes.

"Eat something," Dean ordered.

Sam obligingly opened a stick of beef jerky and a bottle of water. The core of the bottle had turned to ice and the water made his teeth ache, it was so cold.

"You feeling okay?" Sam asked. "How're your ribs?"

"Peachy," Dean grumbled. "How about your head, Goose Egg?"

"Hurts."

"Ibuprofen's in the glove box."

"I'll be okay," Sam replied. He was starting to feel the creeping warmth as the heater began to work. "You're not going to try to power us out of this drift are you?"

Dean shot him a look.

"Right. Of course. What was I thinking?" Sam turned away, tugging off a piece of jerky.

"Gotta figure out how to get her out of this," Dean muttered, rubbing his cold-reddened hands together in front of a vent. "We've got half a tank of gas."

"Well," Sam sighed. "We can't exactly call Triple A. Bobby's too far away."

"We could hike to the nearest town," Dean said. "Talk someone into hauling us out. Or…buy a shovel and a bunch of sand."

Sam looked at him, incredulous.

"What?" Dean asked, eyebrows pulled together over the bridge of his nose. "The last sign we passed said that Lethe was like…five miles. We can make five miles."

"Dude, did you forget? You're _wanted_ by the _Feds_."

"So?"

"So! You can't just go…wandering into some town ten miles over the Wisconsin state line. Hendrickson is gonna have that covered, you _know_ he is."

"I'll wear the ski mask," Dean argued.

"That'll only get you so far," Sam shook his head. "No."

"What do you suggest, Sam? Stay here and wait for it to warm up?"

Sam swallowed more water. "I'll go."

"By yourself?" Dean pulled his head back.

"Sure, why not?"

Dean looked out through the front windshield, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun. Sam could see him searching the filing cabinet in his mind for a reason good enough that Sam would stay. He knew his brother; knew that having Sam walk away into the snowy wilderness toward a town they'd never been to in order to get help while Dean sat back and simply waited was worse than asking Dean to walk willingly into Hell.

"I don't like it," Dean said finally. "Too many things could go wrong."

"We have our cells," Sam pointed out. "We'd keep tabs on each other."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his main tell as far as anxiety was concerned. "You could get hypothermia."

"I'll wear extra clothes."

"You could get picked up by the cops."

"They don't have my picture, just yours. And I've got an innocent face."

"You could…get attacked by a bear, fall down a hole…not come back."

Sam had been a hairs breadth from grinning at Dean's worried tirade until the last words sank in.

"I'm not going to leave you here, Dean." His tone held the shocked surprise he honestly felt.

He looked hard at his brother's profile, waiting until Dean couldn't take the silence and turned back to face him.

"You _know_ that…right?"

Dean looked away. "I just…I don't like it."

"We gotta do something, man. We can't just sit here."

"We'll just go together." Dean continued resisting. "I'll…hide outside why you go in for help."

Sam shook his head. "How're we gonna explain you when we both need the ride back to the car, then?"

"We'll think of something."

"This is the only way, Dean. You know it is."

Dean was quiet.

"I go, I get help, I get back," Sam pressed. "Simple as that. No law, no hunts, no mess."

Dean rubbed his face roughly, running his fingers up through his hair. "Okay," he finally relented. "But if we're gonna do this, we do it smart."

An hour later, Sam stood where the road had been the night before, facing the direction they'd been heading. He was dressed in two layers of jeans and long underwear—a feat of flexibility and dexterity he was in no hurry to repeat—long sleeved shirts, a hoodie, and a faded, brown Carhartt jacket stained with sweat, grease and something else neither of them could identify. He wore the S.W.A.T. team ski mask and gloves and Dean's sunglasses to protect his eyes from the blinding glare of sun on snow. He was armed with Dean's spare throwing knife—since Ronald had tossed his favorite one down the mail slot at the bank—and Dean's Beretta.

Dean had wanted him to carry the sawed-off shotgun as well, but relented when Sam pointed out that it would weigh him down and wasn't the best first impression to make when asking strangers for help.

"Would be if you didn't get far by asking," Dean had pointed out, sullenly.

"I'll be back before it gets dark," Sam called back to his brother, who was standing in the slightly-opened door of the Impala.

"That's in about seven hours, dude," Dean shook his head. "I wouldn't count on it."

"Stay warm," Sam said.

"You too," Dean replied.

Sam saw him shiver; he knew Dean wouldn't climb back into the car until he could no longer see Sam on the road, so he started walking toward Lethe.

"Please let this be a town that doesn't get Wisconsin news," Sam muttered to himself. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Dean duck back into the temporary warmth of the Impala. "Just a normal town with normal people. Who drive pick-up trucks. With winches."

The snow on the road wasn't as deep as the drifts to the side, and Sam found himself soon beginning to sweat as he walked rapidly, blanking his mind to any other possibility except getting help and getting the Impala back on the road before his brother froze to death waiting for him. He paused to drink some water, shoving one of the apple pies into his mouth and wiping the icing from his fingers with snow.

Continuing on, he lost track of time, his whole existence reduced to moving forward, one foot in front of the other, breathe in, breathe out. His feet were cold, but motion kept the rest of his body too warm to shiver. Motion, and the multiple layers of clothes Dean had insisted upon. He wouldn't have agreed if Dean hadn't been willing to keep the blankets back in the Impala for himself.

Sam's real fear wasn't in being caught or attacked as Dean had enumerated while they were getting ready. It was being too late—too late to save Dean from freezing to death, too late to get them out of the snow before Hendrickson caught up to them.

Two hours passed before he saw another soul on the road. He'd started to run scenarios of post apocalyptic times through his head—blaming too many late-night movies subjected upon him by an insomniac brother. With the snow dampening any and all sound—even that of his own rough breathing—it was easy to imagine he was the last person on Earth.

He called Dean's phone, getting voicemail. He doubted there was coverage where the Impala lay buried. He barely had any bars where he stood.

"Hey, Dean," he said to the recording. "Just wanted you to know I'm making good time. Should be in Lethe in about an hour. Stay warm."

The vehicle that approached him startled him so greatly he slipped, going to one knee on the side of the road. He pushed to his feet, keeping his head down as the vehicle passed. It was a news van, Sam saw, frowning. Nothing he recognized, though. He had one fleeting thought of the van passing Dean, his brother flagging it down for help, but two facts dispelled that hope: there were at least six turn-offs between Sam and the Impala, and there was no way Dean would willingly seek the attention of a news van.

He pushed on, the cold feeling of dread in his gut chilling him faster than the post-winter-storm air. He passed a snow-framed, wooden sign, brightly painted with a large lake and pine trees surrounding it.

"New Lethe," he read aloud. "Population 512. The Hampton's of the North."

Licking his dry lips and adjusting his shoulders, he continued on. "Doesn't sound so bad," he mused. "Small town…news van was probably just…covering an ice fishing competition…or a quilting contest…." He took a shallow breath, trying to ease the ache of dread in his chest. "One news van is nothing…doesn't have anything to do with us."

He entered a sheltering cluster of pine trees, all tall enough he had to lean back to see their tops. The snow was less here, though the cold seemed to collect and still. The wind was blocked by the trees, and as he continued forward, the snow virtually disappeared. Pockets and puddles of ice lay frozen across the road, but he was at last able to walk without snow weighing down his boots.

Picking up speed, Sam followed the curve of the road, pulling the sunglasses off and tucking them into a breast pocket as the trees shadowed the surface of the road. He could see a building in the distance with several cars parked out front. As he drew closer, he saw the name _New Lethe CoffeeHaus_ painted in red letters on a large white sign fixed to the side of the building.

Above that sign, however, Sam saw the faded outline from letters spelling out _Sanderson's Bar and Grill_. Eyes seeking the warmth of the light from within, he nearly missed the words painted on the side of two vehicles parked on the far end of the lot. Two news vans, both affiliates he'd heard of back in Milwaukee, and three police cruisers, local law.

He balked for a moment, swallowing. Instinctively, though he was over five miles back, Sam looked over his shoulder, thinking of Dean. He could move on, look for help somewhere else. But he had no idea how long that might take, and he knew the warmth in the Impala would only last so long.

"They don't know you," he told himself sternly. "This has nothing to do with us. Whatever reason they're here, it doesn't matter to you. Get in, ask for help, get out."

Nodding to himself, Sam pulled the ski mask from his head, shoving his hair from his cold, sweaty face, and entered the coffee shop.

* * *

**a/n: **Thank you for reading. I'm going to (try) do what I did before—update every two weeks or sooner, real life willing. Hope to see you in the next chapter!

**Playlist: **Caroline, I hope these worked for you.

_These Colors Don't Run_ by Iron Maiden

_Blood Brothers_ by Iron Maiden


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Chapter 1.

**a/n: **Thank you for coming back! I know some people said they were going to wait until this was all done before reading, and I look forward to the thoughts of those readers with eager anticipation, but I want to thank you guys who are reading as I post. You push me to keep going. I'm heading out this weekend to celebrate my thirty-something-eth birthday and since I had the next chappie done (whew!) I decided to get it up before the two-week mark.

It's been snowing like crazy in Lawrence, so writing this chapter was an exercise in irony. *smile* I hope you enjoy! It's going to get worse before it gets better.

* * *

_Well, if you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand.  
I've seen your face before my friend, but I don't know if you know who I am.  
Well, I was there and I saw what you did. I saw it with my own two eyes.  
So you can wipe off the grin, I know where you've been  
It's all been a pack of lies_

~ _In The Air Tonight_ by Genesis

www

An hour after Sam left, Dean fell asleep.

He hadn't meant to, and when he felt exhaustion tugging his lids lower, he fought it. But roughly forty-eight hours without rest and with only anxiety and tension fueling him resulted in a weight on his battered body that he was hard-pressed to combat. The night before had consisted of watching Sam sleep, waking him enough every few hours to ensure he hadn't suffered a concussion—though Sam had really only huffed at him and swatted his hand away—and turning the car on periodically to keep them from freezing to death until the snow got too bad that he had to stop or risk suffocating them on exhaust fumes.

He hadn't been able to sleep while the car was on, afraid they'd run out of gas. He hadn't been able to sleep when the car was off, needing to check on Sam. The ending result had been a distorted doze against the door, slipping sideways to wake with the steering wheel pressed against his eye socket.

When the sun had first crested the protective wall of trees, he'd transferred the towels wrapped around his chilled body to Sam, shoved his way free of the buried car, and set about clearing a path to the tail pipe. Watching Sam walk away several hours later was one of the hardest things he'd had to do, and though he'd never admit it openly, also one of the most necessary.

FBI Agents aside, Dean was beat. And he knew it.

The trapped warmth of the Impala from the last heater blast had faded quickly and Dean layered the extra flannels and one spare hoodie under his blue canvass jacket, then used his Bowie knife to cut a hole into one of the blankets, pulling it over his head like a poncho.

After wrapping the other blanket around his legs, he curled up on the front seat of the Impala as best he could without putting extra pressure on his sore ribs, his knees tented and leaning against the steering wheel, counting the minutes until he could turn the car on again. Sleep tugged at him almost the moment he stopped moving. There was nothing to do, no one to watch over and his body desperately wanted to shut down.

Propping his feet on the window, his back against the cold vinyl of the bench seat, he began to hum the first song that came to his head, working his arms free of the blanket cocoon and crashing invisible sticks on an imaginary drum set.

"Exit light…enter night…take my hand…. We're off to never never-land…"

Dropping the sticks, Dean rubbed his cold face viciously, the sunburned skin across his cheeks tight and sensitive.

"Great, Dean," he chastised himself. "Way to stay awake, man. _Enter Sandman_. Awesome choice."

He stretched his hands out in front of his eyes, noticing with a vaguely disconnected sensation how much bigger they looked in the S.W.A.T. gloves. It struck him that he was always aware of his hands.

It was an odd sensation, and one he'd never really spoken of to anyone, but for some reason he was constantly conscious of his hands. Where they were, what they were doing. As if they were not an extension of him, but a situation he had to control.

Curling his fingers against his palms in tight fists, he pressed them against his eyes until he saw a jumble of stars and fireworks dance across his closed lids.

"Jesus, Dean, get it together!" He bounced his fists against his face once. He felt drunk. High. Oddly and frighteningly euphoric.

With a breath of air cold enough to crackle inside his chest, he sat up, blinking his eyes wide, wincing as the sunlight reflected in crystallized perfection off of the mountains of snow around him. Digging into the recesses of the glove compartment, he came up with road maps, napkins, a deck of cards and his Colt 1911.

"Never really been one for solitaire," he muttered aloud.

His eyes tracked to the gun resting heavily in the hollow of his hand. Cleaning his weapons had always soothed him in the past. The automatic rhythm of removing each piece, cleaning each piece, reassembling each piece gave him purpose and clarity, something to keep his unwieldy hands occupied so that his mind could work. But at the moment, the prospect of taking the weapon apart required too much effort.

Exhaling a cloud of air, he set the gun on the seat beside him, automatically checking to make sure the safety was on. He wasn't shivering, but he was cold, and he instinctively burrowed deeper into the blankets, turning his mind to Sam, and the image of his brother's shoulders hunched against the cold as he walked away. The transition from awareness to the twilight of dreaming was seamless.

For most people, dreams waited for them until they were sleeping deep enough to relax the guard on their subconscious. Dean, however, had a series of mazes in his mind, each wall carefully constructed to sequester a memory too painful to deal with or too confusing to focus on for any length of time. Unfortunately, Dean had long ago learned that there were more flavors of pain than there was coffee, and if the walls he'd been forced to construct so far were any indication, he was going to taste each one. The more innocent, less-painful memories had the weakest guard. And were therefore more accessible and easily encountered even when he brushed the edges of sleep.

The images were faded, unclear. They were more impressions at first. But he knew he was seeing Sam. And Dad. Both were old and young at the same time, confusing him. Something was wrong; he could sense that much. And he needed to get Sam away. Dad was telling him to _get Sam away_. Something was outside, something bad.

Dad was shouting. Dean felt his heart kick in his chest at the sound. Dad only shouted like that when he was scared. Dean was holding Sam, gripping him, really, because he was too big hold. But he had to protect him. He had to get him away, get him safe. He wanted to keep him close, shield him from that _thing_ outside. That thing they couldn't see.

It was after them, chasing them. They were running, all of them. He could hear them breathing beside him. Dad's breath released with harsh slaps of air against air, as if he was fighting a battle just by being there. Sam's gasps were more desperate; he was falling behind. _It_ was going to get him, and Dean couldn't let that happen. If it even _touched_ Sam, he'd be lost to them forever.

Turning, Dean thrust out a frantic hand and felt his fingers crash against a hard, unyielding surface; he cried out in surprise and confusion. Opening his eyes, he blinked around, trying to gather his bearings, to balance himself. His fingers slid down the frosted-over pane of the driver's side window. He could feel himself shaking and wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the remnants of the dream.

He pulled his right hand free from the glove and rubbed his face, slightly surprised to find it come away sweaty. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he'd slept for over an hour. With a clumsy, panicked motion, he grabbed for his cell phone, flipping it open. No bars.

"Shit," he whispered, the word jumping with the force of his shaking body.

The cold had settled into him; he felt it layering against his bones, turning them brittle, making them ache. The bruises he'd gathered from his face-off with the shapeshifter fell down the ladder of importance when he realized his teeth had chattered hard enough he bit through the skin on the inside of his bottom lip. He could taste the blood on his tongue.

His breath puffing out in clouds and bouncing off the frost gathered on the inside of the window, Dean gave in to the shivers rattling through him, turned on the car, and cranked the heater once the car had warmed up sufficiently. Huddled close to the vent, Dean let his eyes flutter closed with pleasure. The heat pouring over his face and his chilled hands was delicious. He felt his body quake from the inside out as he drank it in.

Shaking off the cobwebs from the half-remembered dream, he glanced at the gas tank. If he was careful, he rationed, he could keep the car on for thirty minutes and trap the heat. If they were lucky, Sam would be back by morning. He could last until morning. He'd endured worse, he reasoned, than a cold car stuck in the middle of a snow bank in Nowhere, MN.

Watching his father tailspin when Sam left for Stanford had been worse, even if it had led to a refined understanding between Dean and John. Living through those first few months without Sam around was nothing short of an endurance test. Remembering how to breathe normally after burning his father's body had been worse than this.

As his muscles warmed, he eased back from the vent and closed his eyes. He was surprised that it was still so easy to draw his father's face in his mind. Especially when it was quiet like this. The kind of quiet that screamed at him. With only the whispered snarl of an agent's accusations to fill in the gap.

Reaching forward quickly, Dean turned on the radio. He knew it wasn't the smartest thing to do; he needed to save battery power. But he was willing to risk it to stave off the pain that the image of his father in his mind's eye stabbed into him. Seeing John—even a memory of him—was a wound without a balm.

He ejected Iron Maiden, not wanting the reminder of Sam's quiet, off-tune voice replacing Hendrickson's snarl in his mind. As he searched for Metallica's _Black Album_, the rattle of a static-filled news report drew his attention. Frowning, he tweaked the dial, trying to bring the words in clearer.

"…_reports from New Lethe, Minnesota, are still coming in, even though the town is apparently under a media quarantine after…. ...body found three weeks ago in Lethe Lake by…sons of prominent town members."_

Dean turned the volume up, wincing through the crackles of static.

"_The body, identified as Josephine Sanderson, was cremated days ago…. ...memorial service to have her ashes returned to the lake…. Mayor Saul Jones had planned to rename the lake _Josephine's Refuge_ to honor…the woman who some say was left behind when the town was abandoned and flooded to create the new…."_

Rubbing his face, Dean sighed. "Perfect. Just freakin' perfect," he muttered. "Of all the Podunk towns in the entire Midwest, we have to get stuck outside of one with a body in a lake."

He dropped his hands, staring at the radio as if his concentration would clear up the static.

"…_locals are calling the lake _Josephine's Revenge_ in light of the recent death…. ...preliminary reports indicate that the Mayor drowned, though suspicion was raised as his body was found at his desk in his downtown office…. Sheriff Matthew Mead will take over the memorial…in hopes of laying to rest any…. ...and restoring peace to the town…."_

The report buzzed with a strong burst of static, and Dean flinched, reaching out to adjust the dial. When he found the news channel again, they'd shifted to a report about the recent storm freezing the lake and making further investigation into where the body had been found impossible for now. When a commercial for a local gun and knife show came on, Dean looked down at his watch.

Time was up for keeping the car running.

He switched off the radio, glancing mournfully at his box of cassettes. Leaning toward the heater, he willed his body to draw in the warm air, then cut the engine, sitting absolutely still in the utter quiet that surrounded him.

"Be careful, Sammy," he whispered, knowing his brother had no idea what he was walking into.

For one wild moment, he considered heading out after him, warning him. But it had been hours since Sam had left. By the time he caught up to him, they'd both be in Lethe. Which is what Dean had wanted to do in the first place.

"Hendrickson, you son of a bitch," Dean muttered out loud, casting a hand over his hair and gripping his aching neck.

He burrowed deeper into his blanket, thinking about the footprint the Winchesters had left in the world, at least according to one Special Agent Victor Hendrickson: grave desecration, murder, theft….

All of it true and none of it right.

Dean closed his eyes, bracing himself for the image of his father he knew would hit him. Someone like Hendrickson could never know what his father had gone through, what he'd been forced to learn, to sacrifice, to endure simply to fight the evils of the world. Someone like Hendrickson couldn't appreciate the number of people who were alive today because of what his father had done. Because of what they'd _all _done.

"Maybe I shouldn't have called you an ass," Dean said to the quiet of the car and the memory of his father. "I mean, don't get me wrong. You shoulda told me about Sam. Told me _more_ about him, anyway. You shoulda…." He stopped, shifting sideways and tucking his legs up tight under the blanket. "You shoulda given me _something_, Dad. I can't protect him like this."

Using the side of his gloved hand, Dean wiped a circle clean in the frost of the window.

"I can't protect him like this," he repeated softly, staring out at the snow and trying not to let his teeth chatter.

www

The heat hit him first.

It slid over his cold cheeks, snapping tears from his eyes and causing the skin on the backs of his hands to prick with the need to soak it up and roll in it. As he stepped further inside, allowing the door to close behind him, the smell of coffee, grease, and people wrapped around him, forcing him to breathe shallowly through his mouth until he got used to it.

After the near-silence of the snowy outdoors, the energetic, almost wordless hum of twenty or so voices was almost deafening. Sam ducked his head and shuffled his snow-packed boots on the rough entry mat. Working his head around the story he'd decided to tell to get someone to take him back to his brother and the Impala, he moved into the main part of the building, lifting his eyes and glancing around.

He blinked in surprise. Every eye in the room was on him.

"Uh, hi." He hesitantly lifted a hand, his glove still clasped tightly in his fingers.

A man dressed in the tan of a sheriff's uniform twisted his rotund body around on a barstool, a large pewter coffee mug gripped in his hand.

"Help you, son?"

Any carefully crafted story he'd assembled outside in the cold evaporated and Sam's mind went blank. "Just, uh…lookin' for some coffee?"

It came out as a question, his eyes darting away from the sheriff to find somewhere friendly to land. He ran out of options rather quickly as he saw a group of people that looked like reporters—press badges and blue-tooth ear pieces giving them away, though ink-filled notebook curiously replaced PDA's—staring back with curious expressions, other law enforcement officers tilting their heads and taking him in, a group of hard-mouthed men dressed in flannel snarling rather suspiciously back at his innocent smile, and three teenagers gathered despondently in a corner of the diner, their eyes defeated.

"Would you all get back to your worrying and gossip?" A woman's voice from the back of the room cut through the awkward silence like sugar-coated venom. "Are you so sideways with your own problems you can't see this boy's about frozen?"

Sam searched the room, coming upon the smallest woman he'd ever seen, her steel-gray hair twisted at the back of her neck, her arms moving like pistons as she made her way across the room toward Sam.

"You come here," she ordered.

Sam obeyed, sensing instinctively that to do otherwise would seal his doom. A hand in the vicinity of his knee, she guided him to an empty stool at the end of the bar. He nodded at her, smiling gratefully, and shrugged out of the first two layers of his coats.

"You poor dear," she clucked, narrowing large eyes the same color as her hair as she stared at him. "Were you out walking in this weather?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but she waved him off.

"That much is obvious. And, goodness now, look at that eye! Quite a bruise you've got there. What you need now is a cuppa hot coffee and some stick-to-your-ribs food. I know just the thing."

She turned and moved away before Sam could say a word. He glanced to his right and lifted his chin at the still-staring eyes. As if on cue, the diner patrons turned back to their coffee and conversation, the sheriff standing, stretching, and fixing his walkie-talkie back to his belt before nodding to the other officers two booths away.

Sam found himself breathing easier when the cops left the coffee house.

"Sheriff Mead's gonna have to kiss a lot of babies this year if he wants to keep his job," grumbled a voice from down the bar when the door shut behind the retreating figures.

"That isn't all he'll have to kiss," replied another, this one from a booth. "Calling Mayor Jones' death an _accident_ and renaming the lake isn't going to fix what's going on here."

"And what _is_ going on here, Mr. Fischer?"

Sam turned to see one of the reporters sitting in a booth behind him leaning forward, his dark-framed glasses sliding to the point of his nose and wiry, jet-black eyebrows twisting like fat caterpillars above bright blue eyes.

The man the reporter addressed as Fischer turned his attention back to his coffee.

"Your son was one of the boys who found Josephine's body three weeks ago, is that right?" the reporter pressed.

Sam felt a knot coil in his belly and he turned around quickly, facing the counter, his back to the rising conflict. The last thing he needed was to walk in on a town neck deep in a murder investigation. Let alone two of them, from the sound of it. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck and upper lip as he considered the increased media scrutiny and suspicion of the law that would go hand-in-hand with such a situation.

_Dean cannot be here_. No matter what, he had to keep his brother out of this town.

The man next to him huffed loudly, making no secret his displeasure with the course of the community discussion. Sam glanced over as the man snapped a newspaper open and pointedly trained his eyes on the center, leaving the front page exposed to Sam's view.

In seconds Sam's quick eyes caught the words _body_, _lake_, _mysterious_, and _drowning_ in the caption under a picture of a water-logged steeple emerging from an ice-laden lake. The headline _Mayor Dead by Ghostly Hands _took up the entire top line of the paper.

As the reporter and Mr. Fischer argued behind them, Sam saw the kitchen door swing open and the woman emerged with a mug of coffee and plate full of biscuits and gravy. Sam took them from her with a smile and a nod of thanks.

"I appreciate it," he said sincerely, his stomach growling at the smell of food.

He spared a moment of guilt for Dean trapped back in the freezing Impala before shoveling two huge spoonfuls into his mouth. The noise level rose behind him, but the woman's eyes were pinned to his face, watching him eat.

"You know anyone that has a tow truck around here?" He asked her, keeping his voice low so as to not draw attention to himself, but the discussion around him looked to have been going on for awhile and was just gaining more momentum.

Accusing shouts of reporters invading Lethe and Lethe doing just fine without the media spreading rumors were blocked and parried by equally ardent cries of foul play running amuck in town evidenced by a body rising from a submerged town and Mayor Jones dying under mysterious circumstances.

Sam tried to ignore the ice filling his gut faster than the food he was shoveling down.

"Oh, Sheriff Mead might know someone," the lady clucked, as if oblivious to the chaos building behind Sam, "but he's got his hands full these days keeping the reporters and their spies out of town and setting up the memorial for that poor woman."

Deciding to skip over the 'spies' comment, Sam forced down another bite of food, bands of tension wrapping tightly around his chest. "Anyone else I can ask? My brother's stuck back at our car—"

"You can delude yourselves all you want," the indignant cry interrupted Sam's explanation, "but everyone in this room knows that your Mayor's death wasn't an accident. He was killed by the ghost of that woman you found in your lake!"

Sam met the gray eyes of his benefactor and watched as she shook her head and turned away. Glancing to the side, Sam tried to get a glimpse of the man who'd called 'ghost,' wondering for a brief moment if he might be a reporter for the _Weekly World News_.

The man next to Sam carefully folded the newspaper and turned around on his stool. "Son, you need to calm down."

His voice reminded Sam of Bobby's and the serenity that surrounded him drew Sam's attention. "I've been reading this paper of yours," he continued, "and not _one thing_ you have here is based on any sort of empirical evidence. All you folks have done is get people worked up. We've got tourists coming to Lethe in the off-season to poke around and search for ghosts in our living rooms and it's all the sheriff's men can do to keep them from getting themselves killed by heading out on a frozen lake."

"There's a _murderer_ in this town!" His voice impassioned, the reporter's face was bright pink, spittle edging his lips as he raked a think hand through unkempt black hair.

Sam swallowed, turning on his stool to face the room as he felt people begin to close in.

"We don't know that." Reason keeping his tone measured, the man next to Sam lifted a weathered hand to tap the air, seeming to sweep an aura of calm around everyone except the reporter. "All we know is that it appears a woman drowned several years ago and that this town lost a beloved Mayor."

"You read my story," the reporter pointed to the paper folded under the man's arm. "It's all right there!"

"But there is no _fact_ in anything you said."

The reporter stepped forward swiftly, shoving his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. Sam saw several other people with palm-sized pads of paper furiously scribbling notes.

"Who are you?" the reporter demanded.

"My name is Cooper," the man replied, dropping his chin and raising his eyes to meet the reporter's intense gaze. "I'm the Medical Examiner, and I can tell you that Mayor Jones did, indeed, drown."

"At his _desk_?" the reporter shot back, sarcasm layered thick on each word. "Tell me _that's_ not a fact."

Sam couldn't help himself; he looked back at Cooper, awaiting an answer.

"Foul play has not been ruled out," Cooper replied, his dark eyes raking over the patrons in the diner, "which is one of the many reasons, as you know, the sheriff has asked those not currently living in New Lethe to stay outside of town limits until after the memorial service and a thorough investigation can be conducted."

Another reporter stood and took his friend by the arm, trying to tug him back to the booth. Sam watched him, his head spinning with the amount of information that had come his way in a relatively short amount of time. If Dean were here, they would be all over this case.

_Dean…._

"Answer me this!" the reporter called to Cooper in a last attempt for attention. "How can I constitute my beliefs with _fact _if you quarantine your precious town and refuse to allow anyone not currently living there access?"

"You want fact?"

Sam's head swiveled along with the rest of the patron's in the diner to track to this new voice. One of the boys Sam had noticed upon entering stood, stepping from the shadows, his face lined with grief and rage, his body tight with both.

"Eric—" One of the other boys reached up to pull at his arm.

Eric shook him off. "Here's a _fact_ for you."

Sam watched the other two rise behind their friend, creating an impressive wall of support as Eric continued walking toward the reporter. The smallest of the trio pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and it looked to Sam as if he might be sick any minute.

"My friends and I were trying to save our town. That's a fact. We took my buddy's boat and went out past the border over to the old town," Eric kept going until he was standing with barely a breath of space between himself and the reporter. "That's a _fact_." Sniffing he pointed at the reporter's chest. "We found the body, reported the body, and now my Dad is _dead_."

"Eric, c'mon, man." The same friend reached for him again.

Eric wrenched his arm from his friend's grip. "Lay offa me, Matt."

"Eric, he's not worth it, man," chimed in his bespeckled friend. "Your dad was a good guy."

"Yeah," Eric nodded, his dark eyes pinned to the cowed reporter. "He was a good guy. And he was gonna do a good thing and name the lake after that woman we found. A woman nobody even _knows_." Eric dragged the back of his hand beneath his nose. "And he doesn't deserve this dickhead making up _lies_ about him."

"Nate," the man called Fischer said from the doorway. Sam saw the kid with glasses turn to face him. "Son, you and Matt take Eric home. You don't need to be out here."

Nate nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Matt. "Yessir."

Matt finally got a grip on Eric's arm, turning him. Sam felt his heart clench at the expression on Eric's face; it mirrored the expression he'd seen on Dean's as they stood at their father's funeral pyre: regret, anger, and pain beating helpless fists against a glass wall.

Fischer followed the three kids out of the diner, the door closing solidly behind them. Conversation returned to the background hum and Cooper turned back to face the counter. Sam found that he needed to take a deep breath. Sparks danced at the edges of his vision and the tips of his fingers tingled. Dropping his head, he turned slowly toward the counter, working to re-center himself on why he was there, what he needed to do.

"I hear you were in need of a tow truck?" Cooper asked Sam.

Sam jumped slightly at the sound of the man's voice, then nodded. "Yeah," he started, then paused to clear his voice. "Uh, my brother's back at our car. We went off the road in the storm last night."

"I don't have a tow truck, but I have a pick-up with a winch," Cooper told him.

Sam felt the tension begin to ease. Maybe he could get back to Dean and they could get on their way before dark after all.

"Can't get to you until tomorrow, though," Cooper continued. "Too many ghost-hunting tourists and goddamned reporters to wrangle. Not enough Sheriff Mead to go around. I gotta stay here on the edge of town until after the memorial is over tomorrow."

Sam looked down, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Last night was cold enough; could they make another one? He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip as he thought. They could help the situation here; he knew it in his bones. There was a very simple way to find out the truth behind what was going on—and more likely as not, the reporter had a point, regardless of his paranoid approach.

"Mr. Cooper?"

"Just Cooper, son," Cooper corrected.

Sam nodded. "What if we worked in a trade?"

Cooper looked at him curiously; the lines at the corners of his eyes folding like bird wings around serious eyes. His lips pulled close as if he were about to take a drag on a cigarette and Sam could tell by the myriad of creases around his mouth that the action wasn't an unfamiliar one to this man.

"What sort of trade you got in mind?"

Sam swallowed, thinking about Dean; about what he would do; about what he _had_ done. Dean had wanted to bring Ronald in on the truth from the start—Mandroid misdirection aside. He'd told Ronald the truth, eventually.

And Ronald had died.

_Yeah, except he's not a hunter, Dean. He's just a guy who stumbled onto something real. If he were to go up against this thing he'd get torn apart. Better to stay in the dark, and stay alive._

"Son?" Cooper pressed. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded quickly, abruptly changing tactics. "I was just gonna see if I could maybe rent your truck from you and get our car out, then bring it right back."

Cooper narrowed his eyes slightly, his head-tilt proclaiming that he knew Sam had been about to say something different, but the noise behind them drew both of their attention. The reporter and his friends were arguing with a different group of people—a larger group. In size and in number. It was only a matter of time until punches were thrown.

"You need to listen to me or someone else is going to die," the reporter warned.

"You wanna feel how hard I can hit?" Asked a man blanketed in flannel.

Cooper was off his stool and wading into the melee before Sam could blink. The M.E. latched onto the reporter by the back of his black leather jackets and shoved him aside.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" he roared, his eyes boring holes into the flannel-clad man.

"We are done with their kind, Cooper," the man replied, his height, barrel chest and thick, red beard and mustache putting Sam in the mind of Paul Bunyan. "We don't need any more strangers around here pokin' their noses where they're not wanted."

"Just go home, Marshall."

"Cooper—"

"Go home," Cooper snapped. "Stay out of it."

"You can't keep them out on your own, y'know," Marshall declared. "You're gonna need our help."

Sam's eyes followed the thumb he jerked over his shoulder to a group of four other men of equal size. As if on cue, all four crossed their powerful arms over their massive chests.

"No." Cooper declared, shaking his head and stepping between Marshall and the reporter who was now shaking like a leaf. "I won't. Now, get on out of here."

Marshall narrowed his eyes at Cooper, then shifted his attention to Sam.

"Who the hell are you?"

Sam raised his hands and took a step back. "Nobody," he replied, his eyes hitting the other four men behind Marshall before coming back to meet the man's flinty expression. For a moment, he wished for Dean with the desire of Ralphie asking Santa for a Red Rider BB Gun.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" Marshall snarled, taking a step toward Sam. "Come to peek in our windows and write lies about us?"

"No, man," Sam shook his head. "Just passing through."

Cooper shifted his stance to stay between Marshall and Sam.

"Yeah, well, keep on passing," Marshall growled, turning around and grabbing his coat from a hook as he left, his friends following along in his wake.

Sam licked his dry lips, the food he'd inhaled turning to rocks in his stomach, his extra clothes an uncomfortable weight in the heat of the diner. Stress and exhaustion twisted his muscles and he rubbed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose.

Realizing that staying here wasn't going to get him the help Dean needed, Sam dug a ten dollar bill from his jean's and put it under the coffee mug. He looked for the woman who'd helped him, but didn't see her behind the counter or at any of the tables. Grabbing his coat, he made his way toward the door, trying to figure out his next move.

Cooper stopped him in the entryway.

"You leaving?"

"I, uh," Sam glanced at the remaining people in the diner, "think I should just be going."

"You find a way to get your car out?" Cooper asked.

Sam shook his head. "I'll figure something out."

"It's gonna be dark in a couple of hours," Cooper frowned, looking out through the window. "Your brother's still out at the car, you say?"

Sam nodded, seeing that the man was torn. "Look, it's okay. You got a general store in town? I could just get some shovels and sand, call it good." The fact that they even _needed_ shovels in their line of work was ironic to him, but there it was. They rarely had exactly what they needed when they needed it, or so it seemed.

Cooper nodded. "There's a store about three blocks into town," he said, gesturing west. "Tell Emily that I sent you and to put it on my charge."

"Oh, I couldn't—"

Cooper raised a hand. "Don't," he said. "Old Lethe used to be the kind of town that would help people out." He looked past Sam and some of the light left his eyes. "New Lethe is…just a town. We lost our heart when they blew that dam."

Sam frowned, enough questions swimming around him to make his fingers itch, but necessity forced him to ignore them.

"Thanks for your help," he offered instead, snapping his coat closed as he prepared to head out into the cold.

The utter lack of warmth sucked his breath from his lungs and he curled inward instinctively. Moving around to the side of the building, he dug his cell phone out and checked for bars. Finding enough to connect a call, he scrolled down to Dean's name.

"_This is Dean. You know what to do."_

Sam's heart sank a bit as he got his brother's voicemail once more. It had been long enough that he really needed to hear Dean's actual voice; he needed that reassurance before he pushed on, knowing that by the time he got the shovel and got back to the car, it would be night and they would be in for a long, cold wait for daylight.

"Hey, Dean. It's me. Listen, I made it to Lethe, but this place is…well, let's just say it's our kind of weird. Haven't found what we need, but I have a plan B. Stay warm."

He closed the phone and shoved it into his pocket before pulling his gloves back on and heading back out to the road. He began walking in the direction Cooper had indicated, scanning the horizon of the road for signs of this town everyone was so concerned about protecting from lecherous reporters and over-enthusiastic ghost hunters.

_Ghost hunters_. Sam chuckled quietly at the term.

It sounded so…innocent. If any of those so-called hunters ever _actually_ found a ghost, he knew for a fact it would scare them straight into another profession. Unconsciously, his mind began to work over the scattered information that had been shoved his way, trying to suss out the sense from the emotion.

The fact that the Mayor's death had been ruled as a drowning, but his body had been found at his desk waved a spirit flag in front of Sam's eyes. The implication by the reporter had been that Mayor Jones had a hand in the woman's untimely death. The curious part for Sam, however, was that they said they'd cremated the remains already, to return them to the lake.

A body reduced to ash couldn't produce a spirit. The part of him that had been raised a hunter chewed on these disjointed facts while the part of him that was focused on saving their collective hides trudged on through the cold and snow, swathed in a strange, unnatural stillness of air. He was so deep in thought, he didn't hear the crunch of boots on snow until they were nearly upon him.

Shifting his weight, he turned to face whomever it was approaching him. He caught a glimpse of flannel and a blur of flesh before pain exploded through his already fragile head and darkness swamped him.

www

He'd cleaned the 1911. Twice.

He'd played four games of solitaire, challenging himself to find a different Latin word each time he laid down a red card.

He'd put on a karaoke-like concert to Boston's _Don't Look Back _album, though he'd been slightly shady on the lyrics to _Feelin' Satisfied_; it had never been one of his favorites, anyway. His few treks outside of the Impala to answer nature's call had confirmed that it was, indeed, freezing. He'd checked his cell phone roughly thirty-four times. He'd recited—out loud—every town he'd stopped for longer than twelve hours in the last ten years.

He'd recited—out loud—every woman he'd slept with in the last ten years, then moved on to the physical attributes he most appreciated about each conquest. However, taking into account that he was alone in the car, his mind wandered to the variety of ways he could stay warm, and he decided to shift his thoughts to less enticing territory. The last thing he needed was to have certain appendages damaged by the frigid temperatures.

All in all, he'd managed to survive over six hours since his impromptu nap.

Alone.

In the freezing Impala.

Alone.

Having successfully staved off claustrophobia, solitary-induced hysteria, and familial melancholy brought on by an absence of distraction from his memories, Dean considered this to be a rather successful day.

Climbing back into the Impala after spending about fifteen minutes bouncing up and down in the cleared-out space at the front of the car to keep his blood flowing and soak up as much energy from the sun as he could, Dean grabbed the keys and twisted, ready for his next allotted time of heat. He'd waited over two hours this time, working to build up his endurance for the long night.

At first, he was sure he just hadn't twisted far enough.

But when a second turn of the key yielded no satisfying rumble of life, he felt the ice that had been working its way inward from his skin wrap chilled fingers around his heart.

"Oh, no," he shook his head, pumping the gas slightly and turning the key again. "C'mon, baby, don't do this to me don't do this to me…start start start start—"

Another turn. Nothing.

He checked his gauges: he had gas; he hadn't flooded her. Desperate for an explanation, he clambered out into the snow and waded to the front of the car once more, popping the hood and peering inside. Everything was connected as it should be. He unnecessarily tightened the leads to the battery.

Shivering, puffing air through chilled lips, he slid behind the wheel once more, and tried again.

Nothing.

"SON OF A _BITCH_!" His cry slipped through the still-opened door and echoed off of the surrounding trees.

And for one small moment, Dean lost control.

Grabbing the steering wheel, he grit his teeth and jerked repeatedly on the unyielding steel, the growl of frustration building from low in his gut until it vibrated his lips and bounced around the interior of the Impala like a trapped bird.

"Aaaaaarrrggghhh!"

Balling his gloved hand into a fist, he pounded the seat next to him repeatedly. Until he was dizzy from lack of oxygen. Until his hand stung and his fingers cried out. Until he was panting and sweating. Until he was spent.

Taking a breath, he sagged forward, his forehead resting against the cold steel of the steering wheel.

"Well, Dean," he said out loud. "You've got two choices. You can sit here on your impotent ass and wait for your little brother to bail you out—and just hope you don't turn into a human popsicle in the meantime—or…."

He lifted his head, a bead of sweat running into his eyes and tripping over his lashes.

"Or," he exhaled, running his tongue over his chapped bottom lip, "you can risk pissing you brother off and getting caught by the Feds and follow him into town."

He checked his watch. He had about two hours of sunlight left, he reasoned. He doubted he'd make it to New Lethe before dark. But the dark had never bothered him. Things were always more frightening in the light of day.

Freezing to death alone in the wilderness—_that_ frightened him.

"Okay," he nodded as if to mentally seal the deal. "A pissed-off Sammy it is. I never did like popsicles."

Grabbing his 1911, his gloves, the extra ski mask, and the last bottle of water, he climbed out of the Impala, shoving the front door shut and moving around to the trunk. He had given Sam the extra long underwear and only had his jeans to protect his legs. Cutting a blanket into strips, he wrapped the two pieces around his legs, fastening them at his thigh and calf with the straps from Sam's duffle bag.

Pulling on the ski mask to protect his face, he lifted the hood from Sam's borrowed hoodie and secured the poncho-like blanket with a piece of rope they'd always just had on hand for no reason either of them could ever discern.

"You never know when you'll need some rope," Sam had argued.

Dean was determined not to give his brother credit for this one. Not until they were safe. And warm. Warmth was the key here.

He loaded the still-intact duffel with a rock-salt-filled shotgun, holy water, water proof matches, a small can of fuel, and tossed his 1911 and Bowie inside. Slipping his head and one arm through the straps, he positioned the bag across his back. Searching the recesses of the trunk, he found one large, black flashlight. Turning it on, though, the faded yellow of the beam proved what he'd feared: low batteries.

"Next town without a dead body in the lake, we go on a supply run," he muttered, tossing the useless tool back into the trunk.

As an afterthought, he grabbed the two glow sticks Sam had kept from a hunt-gone-wrong into a coal mine hunting an Avae. Shoving them into his back pocket, he closed and locked the trunk.

Offering the Impala a lingering look, he vowed, "I will be back for you. We're not ditching you. I swear to God, I'll be back."

And with that, he climbed up the knee-deep snow of the embankment to trudge along in Sam's footprints toward New Lethe.

www

The sounds around him were familiar—the _thunk_ of boots on the floor, the clink of dishes in a sink, a sniff, a sigh, a hushed voice and meaningless words—but he knew at once it wasn't Dean. There was an abruptness to the motion, not the lingering closeness of someone who needed to be reassured that he was okay.

Sam opened his eyes, pushing himself forward with a gasp before reality truly settled in. The world swam around him and he groaned, closing his eyes and sagging back.

"Take it easy. They clocked you a good one."

Reaching up with a trembling hand, Sam gingerly touched his forehead; the area around his right eyebrow was puffy and swollen. He kept his eyes closed, falling back on his training. Taking stock of his surroundings with his other senses, he catalogued the fact that he was warm, the only thing that really hurt was his head, he was lying on something soft, and wherever he was, it was old.

The smell of mildew and rust penetrated even his addled senses.

"Think you can handle some water?"

The voice again.

It wasn't one he'd heard before, Sam realized. Not even at the diner. He had a thing for voices. He stored them away like Dean stored faces. Blinking his eyes carefully, he took in the dim light of his surroundings. A cabin. Of some kind. Wood and firelight. Lanterns and a sagging couch.

And a man, leaning over him, concern in his tawny eyes, dog tags dangling from his neck as he bent forward.

"Yeah," Sam rasped. "Water would be good."

The man nodded to the side and Sam looked over to see a glass sitting on the floor by the couch. Cautiously reaching over the edge of the couch with a slightly trembling hand, Sam retrieved the glass, tipping his head forward, thankful that the pain didn't threaten to eject his eyes from their sockets. He sipped the water slowly, feeling relief as the cool liquid slipped down his parched throat.

"There's some aspirin there, too, if you need it."

Sam managed to resist a whimper. Barely. He simply flopped his hand back down, found the bottle, and poured four pills into his palm. "How long was I out?"

"Not long. Maybe twenty minutes or so."

Sam watched as the man crouched, balanced on his toes, eye-level with Sam. He was dressed in jeans and black combat boots a grey sweatshirt, loose over a black T-shirt. His hair looked as if it had been cut short at one time, but was now almost scruffy. He could have been twenty-five or forty-five as far as Sam could tell. The severe cut of his cheekbones and squared-off jaw had Sam instinctively straightening his spine; the unsmiling eyes gave nothing away.

"So…I guess I owe you a thanks," Sam tried hesitantly, squinting over at the man's image bouncing and dancing in the flickering light of the fireplace.

"Don't mention it. Been trying to get one up on those bastards for a long time."

Sam saw something flash in the man's eyes but his head was pounding too loudly to identify it.

"What…uh…happened?"

"They jumped you, that's what happened." He hadn't moved a muscle; his expression was almost set in stone, but Sam felt the bitterness laced through the words and sensed the chill in the room. "Five of them."

Sam closed his eyes, pressing his hand against his forehead, feeling a sticky wetness there that told him stitches were probably needed. "Let me guess, trees shaped like men dressed in flannel?"

The man scowled. "I was heading into town, saw them circling, and got there before they got more than a couple of hits in."

Sam peered at him through one eye. "You took out all five?"

The man shook his head. "Didn't have to. They don't like me much."

Swallowing a slow build of nausea, Sam nodded. "Name's Sam, by the way."

"Colin."

"Nice to meet you, Colin." Sam swung his legs over the edge of the couch. "Not to sound ungrateful, but—"

"Whoa." Colin stood, his position blocking Sam's attempt to rise. "Where are you going?"

"I've been gone too long," Sam said, trying to explain without explaining.

"Kid, you've got a sweet bruise on your head. You aren't going anywhere tonight." Colin shook his head once, as if that was the end of it.

"I need to get back to my brother…or get to town and get a shovel…or…."

"Is he dead?"

Sam brought his head up quickly, biting back a gasp as a white hot needle stabbed the back of his eye. "What?"

"Your brother."

"No, he's not _dead_!"

"Why else would you need a shovel?" Colin's brows pulled together and confusion worked to surface as an honest expression.

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes to stave off the continued nausea. "We went off the road. Last night. Into a snow bank." His ability to communicate seemed to have been reduced to brief, staccato sentences. "He's back with the car. I need to get a shovel. Dig us out."

Colin was quiet long enough that Sam opened his eyes. He was surprised to find that the man was no longer in front of him, but standing across the room, his back to Sam.

"I can't help you."

"It's okay," Sam sighed. He'd started to be resigned to the fact that regardless of the situation, he and Dean were in it alone. "I just need to get back to him."

"They're just looking for a way to get rid of us," Colin continued, his voice soft, yet filled with poison.

Sam dabbed at his forehead, pulling his fingers away to see blood, then looked back at Colin's unyielding stance. He didn't bother to ask who _they_ were.

"They've been trying to run my family out since they got the idea for this new town. We don't fit in to their ideal. We're…different. Always have been."

Sam sighed quietly. He knew the feeling.

"I'm tired of being on the outside. Looking in. Feeling like shit." Colin half turned and Sam frowned.

He realized that Colin was standing in front of a chair. A chair that looked liked it was occupied.

"Sam, this is my father. Wallace. It started with him."

"What did?" Sam asked, pushing slowly to his feet, swaying slightly and reaching out to the fireplace for balance.

"The hate. The exile."

Sam looked at Wallace—a man physically reduced by age, time, and circumstance. His arms were curled in toward his body, his hands bent, fingers crimped and claw-like. A long, unkempt gray beard twisted its way to the middle of his chest. Someone—presumably Colin—had combed his hair away from his face. His eyes snapped with reflected firelight, trailing up Sam's form before fixing on his face.

"Before they flooded the old town," Colin said, turning away from Wallace and Sam to stare out into the growing darkness cut only by a brilliant moon, "my father was a prominent citizen. Everyone loved him. And then I left. And when I got back…it was all shit."

"Where did you go?" Sam asked, wiping a thin, sluggish stream of blood from his eye with the back of his hand.

He was still wearing his coat and boots; he could still feel the press of Dean's Beretta against the small of his back. Colin had basically dropped him on the couch, it seemed. No need to find his clothes or belongings. Which was a good thing as he needed to get back to Dean. It was becoming a quiet chant in the back of his mind.

_Get to back to Dean. Get back to Dean. Get back to Dean._

"Iraq," Colin answered simply. "After 9/11…it was the only thing I could do."

Sam nodded, though Colin couldn't see. "How long were you gone?"

As Colin talked, Sam took stock of the cabin. Two rooms: the room with the couch and fireplace—which seemed to be the main source of heat—and a kitchen with a gas stove, sink, small refrigerator and a four-person table. Wallace sat at one of the chairs at the table; to his left was another door and next to the fridge was a third door. A clock was mounted on one wall, a mirror on another, an empty gun rack on a third.

Sam guessed that one led to a bedroom, the other a bathroom, but all-in-all, it was a small space for two men to share.

"Long enough for my father to have a stroke, my town to be destroyed, and my family to be sequestered outside of town like lepers."

It was the second time Colin had referred to his family, but aside from the mirror—which was ornate enough to belong to a woman—there didn't seem to be anyone else there besides himself and Wallace.

"They flooded the town?" he asked, remembering pieces from the arguments in the diner. A sudden fist of pain crashed against Sam's skull. He bit back a groan, trying to focus on Colin's words.

Colin turned toward him, his quick eyes taking in the blood making a slim track down the side of Sam's face. "There's a med kit by the sink," he said, gesturing toward a white box sitting on the counter. He continued talking softly as Sam dragged himself to his feet and moved slowly toward the kit, flipping the lid open and squinting in the dim light at the packets and bottles inside.

"There were three guys—Jones, Tolliver, and Mead," Colin continued. "They saw a chance to make some serious money, but needed to get rid of the old town and increase the size of the lake. They bought everyone out, blew the dam, flooded the old town, and built the new one."

Sam gathered up a handful of items and moved over to the ornate mirror, setting the items on a table beneath it.

"Three years later, a drought lowers the water level of the lake severely; everyone is worried about the town going under," Colin met Sam's reflected eyes in the mirror briefly, "so to speak. And then one winter day, three high school kids find a body. And two weeks later Jones is dead. And Tolliver and Mead are panicking."

Sam stared into the mirror and took a breath. Cleaning this cut was going to hurt. Showing pain in front of Dean was one thing; showing pain in front of a hard-as-nails former soldier who'd saved his ass? Not happening.

"Mead…isn't that…the sheriff?" Sam asked, his voice tight as he wet a cotton ball with antiseptic and began dabbing at the wound; he had to work to keep from visibly wincing.

"Yessir," Colin replied. "New town, new sheriff."

"Who was the old sheriff?"

Colin, looked down for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder.

"Your dad?"

"Up until the stroke," Colin confirmed. "Which happened right about the same time they bought out the town. No coincidence there."

Sam nodded. The cut wasn't as deep as he'd first thought, but the bruise around it was impressive. In the mirror, Sam could see Colin standing next to Wallace, both watching him.

Pulling out some butterfly bandages from the med kit, he took a breath and pressed the cut together, smoothing the tape across the wound. His face looked like it had been through the wringer—fading bruise from the car's dash overshadowed by the cut delivered by an angry man's fist. His lips were chapped, nose and cheeks rubbed red by the cold.

"Thanks," he said to Colin, gingerly touching the bandage. "Not every day I get saved by a guy who has a full med kit on hand."

"Did my share of field medicine in the Corp."

"You were a Marine?" Sam asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"_Am_ a Marine," Colin replied. "Just…taking a leave until…." He paused, his eyes briefly hitting the silent figure of his father.

"My dad was a Marine," Sam informed him.

"No such thing as a former Marine," Colin replied gruffly.

"Unless you're dead," Sam countered.

Colin lifted his chin, glancing away. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Sam said, looking back down at Wallace for a moment, wondering what it had to be like for this family. Both trapped in different prisons, neither where they wanted to be. What did it say about him that he felt a kinship to his savior? "Listen, I really do have to get back to my brother."

"It's freezing out there," Colin argued.

"And my brother's stuck out in it," Sam snapped. At the flash in Colin's eyes, he took a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm just worried about him. I've been gone a long time."

Colin glanced away. "Let me get you a flashlight at least."

"I'd appreciate it."

Colin moved past Sam through a small door. Sam glanced down at Wallace who didn't look up. Sighing, Sam pulled out his cell phone. He had a few bars here as well. Dialing Dean's number, he left a message.

"Hey, man. It's me. Been a…weird night. I'm at some cabin outside of town." He moved toward the window. "Not exactly sure where it is, but I can see the lake real close. Guy who owns it saved my ass from getting jumped by some locals. His name's Colin. That's all I know. I'm trying to get back to you."

He hung up without a goodbye, the word sour on the back of his tongue. Dean didn't like to be alone; and if he had to be alone, he made sure he was busy. Sam didn't want to think about Dean alone in the Impala, unable to do anything productive, and slowly freezing to death between turns of the heater. He closed his eyes and leaned his aching head against the cold glass of the window.

"I'm trying to get back to you," he repeated quietly.

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The sun hadn't so much set as thrown itself behind the wall of trees, thrusting darkness upon the world in a huff and withdrawing heat from the inhabitants below.

Dean felt the cold spike with the coming night, digging through the cracks and crevasses of his make-shift gear and turning his skin numb. The wind picked up and tore tears from his eyes as he peered into the swiftly growing darkness. The moon was high and bright, a small disk of empty light in an ink-black sky. It shone down like a spotlight, tossing unfair shadows across the land that was unlucky enough to be outside its graces.

When it became too dark to see the faint outlines of the road's edge, Dean cracked one of the glow sticks, illuminating his surroundings with an ethereal neon yellow.

"This is like…the zombie apocalypse," he muttered aloud, just to hear something besides the quiet, "without the zombies. I hope."

His teeth chattered incessantly unless he clenched his jaw. However, several hours of clenching had given him a headache to rival his worst concussion. The cold seemed to only accentuate his bruises, turning the light up bright on his aches and putting his exhaustion center stage.

He strained in the quiet to hear the noise from animals who sought shelter from the shadows of the night. Zombies he could handle. Vampires, werewolves, spirits of any variety, he was ready for. Bears and _regular_ wolves, however, that was another story.

It took him roughly three hours to reach the town sign. Holding the fading glow stick up to the wooden letters, he ran his eyes over their claims, the static-filled news report echoing in his memory.

"Yeah, and Twin Peaks was the happiest place on earth," he commented dryly, turning from the sign and finding the path once more.

Crossing the odd threshold of trees between what felt like wilderness and New Lethe, he felt his skin prickle with the stillness, sucking the remaining moister from his sun- and wind-burned cheeks and forcing him to wipe weathered tears from his eyes. He saw Sam's tracks blown away by tire treads and other footprints, following them toward a building with light and the promise of warmth emanating from its windows. It was too dark for Dean to read the sign to tell what the establishment was.

"Could be a witch's rest stop for all I care," he panted, making his way to the door.

The initial warmth was so intense it was actually painful. He stopped in the entrance and closed his eyes, swaying a moment as his body tingled, shivering from relief and cold.

"Help you?"

For a moment, Dean was certain that voice was Bobby's. So much so that his eyes popped wide as he searched for the source. A weathered man with a kind, but wary expression stood across the hall from him, blocking the entrance to the larger room.

"I'm…," Dean found he had to pause and swallow, his lips and throat parched, cracked, and raw. "'m looking for…m'brother."

The man tilted his head quizzically and Dean watched with a sense of detachment as eyes raked over him from head to toe. He knew he had to look like a reject from a movie set with his blanket-wrapped legs and poncho, the only thing visible being his weary eyes.

"Is your brother a tall kid? Floppy hair? Kinda gangly?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So you've met him?"

"Son, I sent him into town about two hours ago." The man swiveled, giving Dean access to the main room.

Dean didn't move. He wasn't sure if he could.

"He was looking for a shovel and some sand. Said he had to dig you out."

"I got tired of waiting."

The man stepped forward, gripping Dean's arm. "You look half frozen."

"Looks can be deceiving," Dean replied, allowing the man to pull him further into the warmth of the diner.

The smell of coffee almost had Dean's knees buckling. Without a word, the man shoved Dean—duffel bag and all—into the nearest booth.

"Stay there. I'll get you some coffee."

At the moment, Dean didn't think he'd be able to move if the man lit the room on fire in front of him. He slowly pulled the ski mask from his face, shoving the hood back and rubbing his gloved hands over his sweaty, frozen, disheveled hair. Sniffing, he pulled the gloves off next, curling frozen fingers against his frozen cheeks and closing his eyes briefly.

"Here."

The voice jarred him from his newfound heat-induced coma. The smell of coffee lifted his heavy lids.

"Didn't know what you took in it," the man shrugged, a handful of sugar packets and half-n-half cups in one hand, a steaming mug of black coffee in the other.

Dean took the coffee and breathed in the aroma before sipping the scalding liquid.

"Man takes it black. Good to know."

"You said you saw Sam?"

"Never got his name."

"Floppy-haired kid you sent out for a shovel," Dean clarified.

"Yeah," the man answered. "Said he couldn't wait until tomorrow for my truck; said his brother was back at the car."

"I was," Dean said, sipping more coffee.

"You aren't there now," the man pointed out.

Dean's eyebrows flexed. "You don't miss much."

The man raised a shoulder. "I'm the Medical Examiner," he said. "They pay me to be observant."

Dean almost grinned. If this guy said _okey-dokey_, he might've just found a fan. A thought occurred to him and he dug out his cell phone.

"Oh, thank God," Dean breathed. "Bars."

"Bars?" the M.E. asked.

Dean held the phone up. "Bars," he repeated, checking his voicemail. He listened as Sam informed him that he was almost to Lethe, then as Sam proclaimed the town as _their kind of weird_.

"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of," Dean whispered, thinking of the news report and ignoring the M.E.'s curious glance.

When he last heard Sam's message about a cabin near the lake and getting jumped, he sat up straighter, his ire heating him faster than the warm diner could.

"You know someone named Colin?" Dean asked the M.E.

The other man frowned. "Colin?"

"Lives in some cabin? Outskirts of town? Real near the lake?"

The M.E. shook his head. "Only place I know of is the Sanderson place."

"Great." Dean stood up. "Where's that?"

"Son, you need to sit down, warm up a bit. Don't mind me saying, you look a bit like death. And I should know."

Dean shoved the ski mask in his pocket, grabbing his gloves. "What I need to do is find my brother. You gonna tell me where this place is or not?"

Eyes narrowed as if weighing the consequences of forcing Dean to stand down or giving him the information he wanted, the M.E. finally nodded.

"Head west toward town until you see the fork in the road. Take a right, toward the lake. The cabin is the only one along that road, back off into the trees a bit. You got a flashlight?"

"No," Dean shook his head.

"Mandy probably has one back there somewhere," the M.E. said, standing to call out.

Dean saw a tiny woman with gray hair and sharp eyes emerge from behind the counter. She looked at Dean and he felt himself stripped bare. He had to glance away.

"You have a flashlight back there?" the M.E. asked her.

"I do. Out of batteries, though," she replied, still eyeing Dean.

_What the hell is it with batteries today?_ Dean mentally groaned.

"It's okay," Dean turned toward the door. "I've got it covered."

"Be careful!" the M.E. called after him. "There's some…some strange things happening in New Lethe."

"Story of my life, pal," Dean replied, pulling the hood up and stepping back outside.

The frigid night air slapped his bare face with a hand full of knives. Dean gasped from the impact, then burrowed deeper into his make-shift gear. He had to force himself to take the first step away from the diner's warmth, but once he was moving, he found he wasn't inclined to stop. Movement at least meant he was doing something.

He cracked the second glow stick and followed the M.E.'s directions. Holding the light in front of him like a beacon, he found the fork in the path and continued on, looking for lights or the cabin.

A flashing neon sign that said _this way, Dean_ would have been nice. Something to get him to Sam and out of the cold.

"I'm so friggin' sick of being cold," he whispered to the uncaring darkness.

The moon teased him with glimpses of the lake to his right, and clusters of trees that might've been a cabin to his left. After a beat of staring into the trees, he realized that he _was_ seeing a cabin, but that it was dark and silent; no flicker of light gave away the existence of inhabitants.

His senses tingling, the hairs on the back of his neck at attention, Dean crept closer to the cabin, then shrugged out of the cross-body straps of the duffel. Setting the bag down against the base of a large tree, he unzipped it, peering inside, trying to figure out what might be best to take. Slipping off his gloves to better grip the weapons, he leaned one hand against the tree, the glow stick caught in his chilled fingers.

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"You see that?"

Sam looked up at Colin's words, relieved that the aspirin was finally taking hold, dulling the hammering scream of pain behind his eyes to something that was at least tolerable.

"See what?"

"That…green light out there!" Colin was peering through the window, the flashlight in his hand.

Sam frowned, joining Colin at the window and following his eye line. He saw the light; couldn't place it, but it looked…almost familiar.

"It's them," Colin spat. "Bastards are coming after me because I stopped them from beating on you."

"You don't know that," Sam said, then turned quickly to face Colin when he heard the unmistakable sound of magazine being checked in a hand gun.

Gripped tightly in the soldier's hand was an M1911—very similar to Dean's favorite weapon of choice, older, less shiny, but just as deadly.

Instinctively, Sam's hand went to the small of his back, where the only weapon he'd agreed to take with him on his trek, despite the fact that Dean had tried to insist on more, was safely tucked away.

Colin flicked off the safety and took a breath, his hand on the door knob.

"Colin, wait!" Sam tried, pulling his weapon and holding it down by his side. "You don't know what that is."

The look Colin gave him should have turned him to stone. "I've been fighting these sonsabitches off for three years. You don't think I know when they're set to terrorize me? I'm done with it. It's too much."

"You can't just go…shooting people!" Sam protested, moving to stop him.

Everything seemed to speed up around him, as if he'd been suspended in time until this moment and now he was running in sand, unable to catch up to the spin of the world.

"Keep an eye on my dad."

With that last missive, Colin darted through the door, firing toward the green light.

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The first shot was high and wide and sent Dean into an instinctive crouch. The second shot bounced the glow stick from his grip.

"Shit!" Dean exclaimed, turning from the bag of weapons and thrusting his hands out to find the nearest tree in the dark.

Gone were thoughts of cold and discomfort. The sound of a bullet striking something solid sent Dean's blood to rising and his breath hammering through his system in an automatic fight-or-flight reaction.

"I know you're out there!" called an angry voice. "You aren't going to get us! YOU HEAR ME! I won't let you run us off!"

Dean rolled away from a third shot, the snow hissing across his exposed skin, heading toward the lake. He could see the moonlight hitting the edges of the iced-over water like a beacon. Ducking instinctively, he ran, trying to find a place to hide until he could circle around his attacker and catch him by surprise.

"Colin!"

The new voice sliced through Dean like a knife, bringing his head up and around, his breath wrung from his lungs.

"Colin! Wait! Don't shoot!"

"Sam…." Dean breathed, searching the darkness for his brother.

He heard rapid footfalls crunching snow under treads, harsh breaths beating against the air. Sam was there…out there and _it _was going to get him.

He needed to grab him, keep him close, protect him.

Searching for Sam, he stepped into a clearing between trees, the moonlight bouncing off the icy lake, throwing him into shadow.

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Sam saw the figure step out from the line of trees as if offering himself up as a sacrifice to crazy. He saw the person shift, as if poised to run toward them.

"Wait!" Sam shouted again, scrambling after Colin, trying to catch the soldier before he made a mistake he'd regret for the rest of his life. "Colin! Don't!"

Colin ignored him, firing once more. Sam gasped as the figure jerked, twisted, and cried out. Before any of the still-moving figures could react, the wounded man slipped backward, arms pin wheeling for balance, falling hard against the ice on the lake, his body cracking the surface and the chilled water sucking him under with greedy fingers as he scrambled for purchase.

Sam's heart thudded painfully against his ribs as he ran.

"No…."

"I got him!" Colin shouted triumphantly as the figure fell through the ice.

Sam never stopped moving. He headed for the edge of the lake, his eyes darting in a panic so complete it canceled out all other thought.

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The tug of the bullet was more an annoyance than a real pain. His body was too cold to register the slice across the flesh of his shoulder and he wore too many layers for it to cut deeply.

But the damage had been done. The force of the impact destroyed his balance.

Dean felt himself spinning sideways, unable to grasp anything, unable to stop his backward slide. He almost didn't feel the impact with the ice. His breath bounced from his lungs—a visible cloud of life poised just above his body, suspended as if bidding him farewell.

The water grabbed him quickly; anxious hands pulling him down and tucking him below the surface of the ice before he was able to grab another breath to replace his lost air.

The water burned him. It was so cold that his skin felt alight with fire.

He crashed his bare fists against the ice, trying to keep his wits close, trying to drag himself back to the hole he'd gone through, but something was tugging at his legs, pulling him deeper, farther from the only means of escape he could see. He slapped his hands against the underside of the ice, desperately wanting to call out, call for help, call for Sam, but the current was insistent and kept him from finding solace.

_SAM!_

His brain screamed. His body screamed. His lungs screamed.

The cold was shorting out logic, erasing words, cutting off meaning. All he knew was _pain_ and _ice_. The only word that surfaced, the only word he recognized, was_ please_.

Darkness was beneath the ice with him; a separate entity that had been waiting, watching for him to slip to the other side the protective shell and join it.

Darkness writhed around him, climbing his body, slipping into his blinking eyes, his gaping mouth. It was inside of him, the dark. A part of him in a way nothing had been before. He wasn't outside of himself, watching himself as he had been after the accident. He wasn't trapped in a dream or feeling the life ebb away.

He was simply wrapped in dark, its hands seductive, its mouth a caress, its eyes boring into his until he felt himself giving in. Until he shook with surrender, ready to give in.

_Sam!_

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Under the brilliant spotlight of the moon, Sam had seen the man fall in, saw the current grab and pull him, saw the shadow of his body moving beneath the surface. Sam ran along the slippery edge of the water, counting the seconds in his head, feeling himself run out of time.

When the body snagged on something, halting its movement, Sam gasped with momentary relief. He slid to a stop, falling to his rear in the snow. He leaned across the edge of the ice, pounding against it ineffectually with closed fists. He wasn't going to break through, not like that. Standing, he dug his heels in, pointed the gun at the ice just above the figure's head and began firing.

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He barely felt himself shaking.

The darkness was winning despite the great crashes of thunder tearing through the water and ice. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't fight. Thought was all-but a memory.

And then a hand grabbed him by the collar.

And he was being pulled free of the darkness, its fingers trailing down his body, leaving its tattoo on his soul. It tugged even as the hand tugged, but Dean's head broke the surface of the water and his skin tightened against the bones on his face, retreating from the cold.

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The water was like liquid fire as he plunged his hand through the hole he'd created in the ice. He flailed for a moment before feeling the edge of a jacket. Reaching further, he grabbed hold, and tugged, pulling the water-logged body from the clutches of the ice-heavy lake.

And then he saw the face. His _brother's_ face.

"Oh, shit, oh, shit, Dean," Sam gasped as his brother's blue-tinged face broke the surface of the water.

Sam's heart stopped beating, then slammed to life painful as he slipped and slid on the snow-covered bank of the lake, trying to haul Dean free.

"What the hell, man! Oh, shit shitshitshitshitshit…."

The litany of curses continued as Sam began to shiver from the cold, pulling Dean free from the water, and up to the bank. He'd yet to hear Dean make a sound.

"Breathe, Dean!" He demanded, shaking his brother as he scrambled backwards. "Breathe, dammit! _Please_!"

He was almost crying with panic, desperation lacing each word as he felt the heaviness of Dean's body, the death-like chill of the skin that touched his. He dropped Dean on the ground, hard, jarring both of them, and was rewarded by a gut-deep cough. Climbing over his brother's wet form, Sam grabbed two wet handfuls of blanket and turned Dean to his side, slapping him hard on the back. Water burbled from Dean's mouth, followed by another deep cough.

"That's it! Another one like that! C'mon, man! Breathe!"

Dean retched water, his body spasming in Sam's grip. He coughed, visibly working to pull air into lungs too cold to properly inflate.

Sam looked around, wildly, for Colin.

"Colin! Colin! I need your help!"

The former soldier edged closer, staring down at Dean's drenched form with an unreadable expression, his gun still clutched in his hand. Dean was instinctively curling in to himself, his legs drawing up, his shaking arms tightening against his chest as he coughed.

"It's…he's my brother, man," Sam gasped, finding it hard to connect his thoughts and complete a sentence. He was so _cold_. "You gotta help me."

Dropping the gun, Sam scrambled clumsily to pull at Dean's wet clothes with icy fingers. "Gotta get these off…gotta get him dry…." He was stammering, his words simply a mantra of focus in a world of _hurry_.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Colin whispered. "I'm so sorry."

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He couldn't think, couldn't move. But he was breathing.

Dean grabbed that lifeline and gripped tight, feeling the deep ache in his lungs as air replaced water, light cutting through the darkness that still reached for him. Dimly he was aware of his brother's hands—on him, gripping him, holding him, saving him. He tried to blink, afraid to close his eyes even for that short of time.

And then he saw it. The darkness. Standing next to Sam.

A specter. A wraith.

_A Reaper. _

And all he could do was shake.

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"Colin," Sam pleaded, swallowing.

They had to move faster. He had to hurry. It was so cold. He couldn't untangle the clothes, couldn't get his fingers to cooperate. It was _so cold_—the snow, the wind the closeness of the frigid water…. He had to get Dean inside.

"I need help. Need to get him warm. Now."

Dean was shivering. Violent, almost seizure-like tremors coursed through his body as small crystals of ice began to form on his wet hair, his eyes half-opened and staring vaguely into the middle distance. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders, leveraging him up so that Sam was crouched behind him.

Setting his heels and shoving upright with all of his might, Sam stood, a gut-deep growl accentuating his effort, his brother a heavy wet mass in his grip. He looked over to Colin for help and saw that the man was gone. He cast a desperate glance to the cabin and saw that the door was open for them.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam encouraged his shaking brother, trying to maintain his hold on the quivering, sopping form. "C'mon, man. You can do this. Walk with me. You gotta move, now, okay? _Move_, Dean."

Sam dragged him forward, holding as tightly as he could.

"R-r-reap… R-reap…." Dean tried.

"What? What, Dean?"

_Just a few more steps…we can do this…we can do this._

"R-reaper."

Sam felt his breath turn backwards. "Reaper?" He repeated. "You saw a Reaper?"

"C-coming…c-coming f-for m-m-me…."

"No," Sam shook his head, digging deeper, finding another gear, moving faster. He was barely able to maintain his grip, but there was _no way_ he was letting go. "No, Dean. Not this time. Not this time."

They half-stumbled, half-fell across the threshold; Sam went to his knees, scrambling to keep Dean against him, though the water was swiftly soaking through Sam's clothes as well. Sam saw that Colin had moved the couch directly in front of the fire. He was stoking the flames with several large logs.

Gaining his feet, Sam dragged Dean by the shoulders, his boots thunking and shifting across the wooden floorboards as they moved, and heaved him up on the couch, off the floor. Dean slumped almost immediately, curling forward with the force of his tremors.

Moving quickly, Sam began to remove Dean's layers of clothes.

"Close the door," he ordered Colin. "Get me some blankets. As many as you've got."

He pulled at Dean's poncho, his brother's icy face falling forward to rest against his neck. His fingers got tangled in the water-logged material.

"What the hell is all of this?" He cursed. _Blankets_.

Dean had wrapped blankets around him for warmth. His hands moved to the rope around Dean's waist, keeping the blanket in place; the water had soaked it, freezing it against the material of the blankets.

"Shit! I can't get this. Dammit, Dean!"

A strange sound slipped from Dean's lips; not quite a cry, not quite a whimper, but enough to send a bolt of pain through Sam's heart as Dean's shivering increased.

"I need a knife!" Sam yelled.

"What?" Colin asked, sounding dazed.

"A knife!" Sam shot him a look, seeing a pile of blankets neatly stacked next to the couch where Colin had been standing moments ago. "Need to cut this off of him!"

Colin reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slim blade, flicking it open with a soft _snick_. He stabbed it into the cushion of the couch for Sam to grab. Sam worked quickly, cutting the rope and duffel ties that held the wet, frozen blankets in place, then pulling the wet clothes off, layer by layer as Dean shook against him, his breath stuttering in short, desperate gasps.

"We need to get him dry." Colin stated.

"I know," Sam said, removing the last of the wet shirts and tipping Dean back to start on his boots and jeans.

"Need to warm his core first—"

"I _know_," Sam snapped, grabbing a blanket to cover Dean's upper body as he finished pulling the wet jeans and boxers from his lower body. "It's your fault he's in his mess," he muttered beneath his breath.

Colin turned away. "I'll get some more wood."

"Dean?" Sam continued to wrap his brother in blankets from the pile next to him, tipping him to his side and making sure to wrap the blankets around his back. He tucked one blanket around his head, drying his icy hair. "Dean, you with me? Hey, hey, look at me, man."

Dean continued to stare at a point just over Sam's shoulder, focused on nothing, his lips parted, bluish, cracked from sun and cold.

"Oh, c'mon, man, no. No no no, don't do this. Don't do this to me."

He tapped Dean's cold face, turning it to face him, terror shooting through him at the vacant, unblinking stare coupled with the low keen that rode the back of Dean's quick breaths. He was shaking so hard Sam felt the couch shift.

"Hey, hey, Dean," Sam said, pressing the heat of his palms on either side of Dean's ice-cold face. "Look at me…_look_ at me, man. Hey, you're breathing, okay? You're breathing, you're alive. There's no Reaper. No Reaper, man."

He needed to do more, needed to warm his brother's core. The only thing he could think of was sharing body heat. Moving quickly, Sam shrugged out of his layers of shirts, and kicked his wet, snow-covered boots free. Keeping his jeans on, Sam worked his way beneath the layers of blankets, turning them so that the heat of the fire would hit Dean's back. Sam pressed Dean's frigid chest to his, wrapping his arms around his brother's shoulders.

Dean's shivering made it difficult to hold on, but Sam pulled him close, gripping him tight. He was at the wrong angle to see Dean's face, but he could feel him breathing—staggered, stuttering gasps for air that felt like he was just pretending.

"Sam?" Colin's voice was close, uncertain.

"Put more wood on the fire," Sam ordered Colin over Dean's shoulder.

Colin moved around the couch, not looking their way, and stoked the fire with more logs. The flames shot up hot and bright. Sam closed his eyes, willing heat to bleed from his body to his brother's. The sluggish _ka-thunk_ of Dean's heart beat at half the speed of Sam's and Sam moved his hands down Dean's spine, working to warm the blood flow around his heart.

"I don't have a car," Colin said quietly from somewhere behind them. "And we don't have a phone."

Sam didn't reply, knowing what he meant: no means to get to an ER. Not that they could go there anyway. Not with Hendrickson no doubt staking out every public building in Wisconsin and Minnesota.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam whispered. "C'mon, man. Please."

Dean's shuddering breath skimmed across Sam's ear. He could feel the death-like texture of his brother's skin. He reached up and tucked the blanket closer around Dean's head and neck, looking down to make sure their feet were covered. Even through his jeans and thermal underwear, he felt the chill of Dean's legs.

"Why, huh? Why'd you do it? I was gonna come back!"

Dean simply shook against him. The heart-breaking sound had quieted and all Sam was left with was the _huh-uh_ _huh-uh_ sound of his brother's breath. Sam lifted his face, craning his neck to see that Dean's eyes were closed; he wasn't aware, but at least he wasn't staring blankly at nothing. Sam felt tears build painfully in his throat, cutting off any words he might utter.

He held his brother close, his face buried in the folds of blankets around Dean's head.

After what felt like hours, Sam felt Dean's trembling start to ease. Not daring to move, he waited, listening to Dean breathe. Several minutes more and Sam realized he wasn't as chilled, the heart beating against him had picked up speed to something resembling normal, and Dean's breath sounds had begun to even out slightly.

He felt his body start to relax.

"S-sam."

Sam pulled his head up. "Dean?"

"Th-the hell?"

"You fell in the lake."

"G-get offa me."

"You were freezing, Dean. I had to get your core warm—"

"S-Sam...p-please."

Dean didn't move; Sam wasn't sure if he could.

But Sam felt the shift in awareness, knew that the realization that they were skin-on-skin, wrapped up under blankets was catching up with Dean. Wordlessly, and without disturbing the blankets too much, Sam slipped free. He turned Dean carefully to face the fire, grabbing the rest of the blankets and piling them on Dean, tucking them around him as tightly as possible before pulling on his own layers of shirts.

He watched his brother's face closely. Dean was still pale—frighteningly so—but his lips were no longer blue.

"Hey," Sam called quietly. "You with me?"

"Didn't fall," Dean muttered.

Sam almost smiled. "Yeah, you did, man. I watched—" his throat caught at the memory of watching the body—the body he hadn't known was Dean—fall through the ice, "—I watched you."

"Sh-shot me."

Sam blinked, surprised that he'd forgotten that. "Oh, damn!"

"F-flesh w-wound. Sh-shoulder."

Sam pulled the blanket away from Dean's arm, seeing the angry groove across the meat of Dean's upper shoulder, weeping sluggishly against the blankets. He looked around for Colin, finding that they were once again alone. Standing, Sam rummaged around in the kitchen, looking for the first aid kit.

Dean's ragged cough brought his head around. He highly doubted there was anything in this old, mildew and rust filled cabin to combat a cough like that. Finding the first aid kit resting on the counter next to the sink, he returned to his brother.

"Gonna just clean this out, okay?"

"'Kay," Dean whispered, his eyes still closed.

"Dean?" Sam pressed a piece of gauze soaked in hydrogen peroxide against the wound. He frowned when Dean didn't flinch. "What the hell were you doing, man?"

"L-lookin' f'y-you," Dean said. "'mpala d-died."

Sam looked at him quickly. "Died?"

A particularly harsh shiver shook Dean as he nodded. "C-couldn't just s-sit there."

Sam closed his eyes briefly, then taped a bandage over the cut on Dean's shoulder. Without another word, he tucked the blanket back up around him.

"Get some rest, man," Sam whispered.

"Where…where're we?" Dean's eyes were oddly bright in the firelight as he looked around the dimly lit room.

Sam rubbed his face. "Oz," he replied.

"F-figures," Dean replied, his eyes slipping closed.

Sam stood, pulling on his hoodie, and gathered the clothes that he hadn't cut apart to free Dean, laying them out in front of the fireplace to dry. He checked on Dean, making sure he was breathing as regularly as possible. Confused and worried as to where the people who actually lived in this house would have gone, Sam made his way back to the kitchen and opened one of the two doors he'd seen there.

It led to a set of stairs. He held his breath, listening. He could hear soft, modulated voices above him and surmised that Colin and Wallace had retreated. As he closed the door, he gaze was caught by the mirror mounted on the wall to his left. For a moment he thought he saw the reflection of someone's back—as if they were staring out through the window. He turned, but there was no one behind him.

Frowning, he looked back at the mirror, but saw only the image of his battered face.

"You are losing it, Sam," he whispered to himself, then made his way to the small door next to the fridge. It led to a bathroom.

After using the facilities, he poked around beneath the sink and found an old, rubber hot-water bottle. Turning the tap on as hot as he could get it, he filled the bottle, capped it, and returned to the warmth of the main room.

Exhausted beyond rational thought, Sam stumbled back toward the couch, going to his knees in a messy heap of limbs. He leaned forward, tucking the water bottle against Dean's chest, watching as his brother instinctively wrapped his arms around the heat. Sam rested his forehead against his cocooned brother, his hand on Dean's chest, reassured by the steady rise and fall of breath interrupted less and less frequently by shivers.

www

Dean's dreams had turned sideways. The darkness that had seeped into him under the ice gripped him as he stumbled through the maze in his mind.

Disjointed images textured themselves on the backs of his closed eyes and he wanted to wake up, banish them, but he was so tired. Heat swamped him chased away by a bone-cracking cold that sent him back to shivering. He thrashed against the impossible weight at his chest, shoving against the tight arms of darkness, wanting to keep it away because with it came the Reaper and with the Reaper….

It was as if he were caught in a screening of a movie about himself that he could only hear. He knew there was something happening around him, something he needed to focus on and see, but the only thing real was the cold and the heat and the only thing that he remotely recognized were the steady stream of words.

Words like _easy, man, you're safe._

Words like _stop fighting, Dean._

Words like_ I've got you, I won't let go._

Words like _please stop shaking…how do I get you to stop shaking._

Words like _it's not gonna get you, I won't let it get you. _

Words like _it's going to be okay, I'm here…I'm here…._

After endless hours of words, he finally felt himself surrender—this time to warmth and peace. A big sweep of nothing washed over him and he gave way to it, needing to shut off, to disengage, to just let go.

Without warning, Dean found himself awake, his body jerking as if he'd fallen, crashing against the ground hard enough to thrust life back into his aching body. The memory of the water grabbing him, pulling him down, sucking him under slammed into him with brute force, and he groaned out loud.

"Dean?"

Sam's groggy voice pulled at him. Dean blinked, the faded sunlight sifting through the small windows did little to illuminate their surroundings. He tried to take a deep breath, turn his head, look for Sam, but his ribs punched back and he found himself coughing, one arm wrapped around his middle, trying to keep himself from flying apart.

"You okay?"

"No." His chest hurt. His shoulder hurt. His voice hurt. Hell, his _hair_ hurt.

"That was a long ass night," Sam yawned.

Dean turned his head, the muscles in his neck screaming in protest.

"Where're you?" he rasped.

"I'm right here, man," Sam replied, tiredly, as if he'd said it a dozen times. Which, Dean realized belatedly, he had.

Sam sat next to him on a wooden chair, his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. Butterfly bandages crossed a wide cut on his forehead and his eye was bruised black. Bloodshot hazel eyes peered at him from the gloom.

"What happened to you?" Dean rasped.

"Long story," Sam said. "Probably as long as yours."

Dean closed his eyes and turned his head, rubbing the tender, ice- and sun-burned skin of his face against the blankets wrapped around him. His head was wrapped in blankets, as was the rest of him. It took him a moment to realize he didn't have anything on _except _blankets.

"Where're my clothes?" He peeked out at Sam with one eye.

Sam gestured vaguely to the fireplace, flames crackling happily across from him.

"Some over there, some back there," Sam pointed behind Dean. "Some I had to cut off."

Dean closed his eyes, images of the previous night shifting and sliding focus behind his closed lids. He recalled the shock of pain as he fell through the ice. He remembered trying to walk toward the cabin…vague impressions of firelight and Sam were split by a terrifying image that chased him through his nightmares.

"You used my rope," Sam said suddenly. "I couldn't get it off of you. Had to cut it and the blankets."

"You took all the other clothes," Dean replied, his face buried and he tried to erase the images he didn't want to contemplate.

Images of darkness. Images of Sam. The two sliding together and crashing in a horrific Rorschach test behind his eyes.

"You were supposed to stay in the car," Sam countered.

"Couldn't," Dean muttered succinctly.

Sam sighed. "I told you that rope would come in handy."

"Imagine me rolling my eyes."

They were quiet for a bit, the sound of the fire filling the spaces between twin heartbeats.

"We crashed outside of crazy town," Sam told him.

"Define…," Dean shifted finally, bringing his face around, dislodging the blanket from around his head, "…crazy."

"Wheels off the ground, no oars in the water, crazy."

Dean groaned, closing his eyes. "Don't say…water."

"You scared me, Dean."

Sam's voice was so serious, so soft, Dean looked over at him.

"And…it's not like we could go to an ER…."

Dean was quiet, words too heavy in his mouth to push forward. Another memory bounced up—the memory of Sam holding him close, keeping him warm, saving his life. The memory of Sam's desperate words anchoring him.

"I didn't _mean_ to fall in, Sam."

"What were you _doing_ out there?" Sam demanded, looking up and Dean saw tears balanced on his lashes.

"I was trying to find you," Dean replied. "Couldn't see any lights on inside."

Sam sighed, dropping his head into his hands. Dean felt a cough building in his chest and pressed one hand against his ribs, holding in the ache as the air rattled through him. The way his throat felt when the air ripped across it, he knew he'd been coughing like this for awhile.

"You're going to cough up a lung," Sam said toward the floor.

"I'll be okay soon as I get up."

Sam looked up at him. "You were hypothermic, Dean. People don't just…_get up_ from that."

"I can't stay _here_, Sam." He pushed up to one elbow, the couch beneath him creaking. He caught his breath, closing his eyes as his body protested the movement. "Where's…here…again?"

Sam looked at him another moment as if weighing his options. Finally, he stood, turning away. "Some cabin near the lake. Some guy named Colin lives here with his old man. Colin's a Marine—served in Iraq. His dad, Wallace, had a stroke and he's taking care of him."

He moved out of Dean's line of sight. Uncomfortable with that, Dean pushed himself further up, ignoring his body's whimpers and cries. He kept one blanket wrapped around his shoulders, clutching it with one hand as he looked over his shoulder at his brother.

"Where are they now?"

"Wallace is upstairs," Sam said, scooping coffee into a percolator and setting it on the stove before lighting the flame. He grabbed a glass and filled it with tap water. "I just checked on him a little while before you woke up. He's…fine, I guess. Colin left. Early this morning."

"Where'd he go?"

"You got me." Sam crossed over to Dean, handing him the water and waiting until he drank the glass empty. "Said something about you keeping him up and needing some fresh air."

Dean frowned. "How did _I_ keep him up?"

Sam glanced at him. "Told you it was a long night."

Dean looked down, remembering the dreams, the terror of being trapped by the darkness. "I kept dreaming about…a Reaper."

"Yeah," Sam said, watching him. "I know."

"Coulda sworn…," he cleared his throat. "I thought I saw one. Last night."

"I know," Sam repeated softly.

Unsettled by the lack of control last night brought on, Dean rubbed the back of his head, looking away. He needed something to do, someone to _be_. He couldn't be a fugitive with his car buried in a snow bank. He couldn't be a protector if his brother was saving his ass. He couldn't be a hunter with nothing to hunt.

He was adrift and it scared him. It scared him more than the darkness had.

"Sam," Dean said, swallowing hard, his throat whimpering in protest and his voice betraying him by turning gravel-rough. "I think there's something going on in this town."

"How do you know that?" Sam's surprise was palpable.

Dean told him about the news report he'd heard on the radio before the Impala's battery died. "Then I got your message about this being our kind of weird…."

"You're saying you want to hunt this…whatever it is."

Dean simply looked at him, willing his brother to understand.

"No," Sam shook his head, moving away from the kitchen toward where Dean sat on the couch, his hands out as if he were about to grab him. "No way, man. Not after—"

"Sam, this is what we do!" Dean tried to push himself to his feet, but his legs trembled too much. He bit back a groan, sinking back to the couch and glanced around for his clothes.

Sam crossed the room, grabbing his boxers from the back of a chair near the fireplace. He tossed them to Dean who pulled them on under his blankets. Taking a breath, Dean tried to stand once more, reaching gratefully for Sam's hand as a brace.

"We don't have to do our jobs all the time, Dean," Sam said quietly. "Sometimes, we just have to survive."

"You have a way to get the Impala out?" Dean challenged him, leaning against the fireplace to pull on his jeans and trying not to shiver now that he was out from under the protection of the blankets.

Sam sighed, shoving his hair away from his face. "I was going to get shovels and sand, but I don't think you're going to be digging anything out anytime soon. Cooper has a truck with a winch, but—"

"Who the hell is Cooper?" Dean asked, frowning at the bandage on his shoulder before pulling his Henley over his head.

"The Medical Examiner. Met him yesterday at the diner." Sam handed Dean his flannel shirt. "He has a truck, but he wasn't too excited about me borrowing it and he has to…stand guard or something until this memorial service is over today."

Dressed in everything except his boots, Dean sat heavily on the chair Sam had vacated. "Memorial for the body they found in the lake."

"Right," Sam nodded. "They cremated her."

"Before or after the mayor drowned at his desk?"

"Before. I think."

"That's what I figured," Dean muttered, leaning forward, elbows on knees, and swallowed a cough. The last time he'd hurt this bad he'd been electrocuted. He was willing to bet he looked about as good as he had then, based on the expression on Sam's battered face when he glanced this way.

"We can _do something_ here, Sam," Dean pressed, lifting his eyes to meet his brother's. "Help these people."

"Why should we?" Sam shot back, his eyes swimming once more. "Nothing we do…none of it matters. You still get accused of murder, we're still on the run, and there's _no one_ to help us when we need it most."

Dean looked down, his brother's pain very real in that dusky cabin.

"You were…you felt _dead_, Dean." Sam's voice cracked across his name. "You were so cold and…you weren't looking at me. You weren't looking at _anything_. And you made this…this sound…."

"I don't remember that," Dean whispered.

Sam sniffed. "The only thing that made me think you weren't going to just…die in my arms…was the way you were shaking."

Dean took a breath. "I know what you did for me, Sam." He looked up, waiting until Sam's eyes met his. "You saved my life, man. You totally annihilated my personal space boundary…but you saved my life."

Sam didn't laugh. Watching him, Dean saw the tears lose their balance on the edge of his lashes and tumble down his cheek leaving quiet tracks on a face lined with exhaustion. Dean knew his brother hadn't gotten much—if any—sleep the night before. They were both running on empty, both beat up, and Dean could feel the press of a ragged cough at the base of his throat.

Logic stated they find a way to get the Impala out, get as much space between them and Hendrickson as possible, and go to ground. Just like they'd planned. But the war between logic and necessity had never been an easy one for Dean. Especially considering the way he defined need.

"Sam, when you were gone, I, uh…I fell asleep for a little bit. In the Impala." He cleared his throat, willing himself not to cough. "And I had this dream."

The smell of coffee shoved back the dank stench of age in the cabin. A clock ticked loudly from a wall in the kitchen. Sam's harsh breathing stabbed through the space between them.

"Well, I thought it was a dream, but it turns out it was a memory."

Sam sniffed. "'Bout what?"

"You were, I don't know, about eight maybe? And Dad was hunting a werewolf up in northern Michigan."

Sam leaned against the wall beneath the out-of-place mirror, sliding down to the ground to rest his arms across his bent knees as he listened. Dean rose, moving slowly and stiffly to the stove, and poured two mugs of coffee.

"He made us hide in this basement of an old house and told me no matter what, keep you with me. No matter what. Stay together."

Crossing the room, he handed a mug to Sam. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and blinked in surprised. He looked worse than terrible. Dark circles beneath his eyes were accentuated by the pallor of his skin; cracked, peeling lips cut a slash of red across his face and the bruises from his struggle with the shapeshifter framed one cheekbone.

The worse, though, were his eyes. They matched Sam's in exhaustion—bloodshot and red-rimmed, he looked half-stoned. He looked away, remembering suddenly the blurred image of someone—Sam—standing over him on the other side of the ice, the water stinging and freezing his vision.

He slid down the wall to sit next to his brother, shoulders touching, mugs held in their chilled hands. Coughing into the crook of his elbow, he took a breath, wincing at the hitch in his chest, and continued talking.

"I could hear it outside the window of the basement. Dad was in the house, upstairs. He didn't know where it was. He was yelling at me to send you outside, telling you to run. I was yelling back no, no, we're staying together." Dean sipped the coffee. "We're staying together."

"What happened?" Sam asked, his voice hushed.

"I shoved you back into the corner of the basement, and I sat in front of you, my back to the window, and I made you look at me. I told you to repeat your multiplication tables as loud as you could."

Sam frowned, the bruise around his eye erasing years with the expression. "I remember that. I don't remember a werewolf, though."

"We never told you that's what it was."

"I thought Dad was mad at us."

"He was scared. He came down in the basement, saw us, saw the bastard working its way through the window toward us, and hauled us out of there. We ran like the devil was after us."

"He never got the werewolf?"

Dean shook his head. "Sent Pastor Jim after it."

"Huh," Sam sipped his coffee. "Why're you telling me this?"

"Dad was trying to keep us off the grid; he'd gotten a visit from Social Services earlier in the week—your teacher reported him. I can't remember why."

Sam tipped his head back against the wall. "And he found a hunt anyway."

"Or a hunt found him," Dean shrugged. "Point is, we stayed together, we stayed alive, and we got the job done. One way or another."

"So you're saying that…even though we've got nowhere to stay, and even though you almost froze to death, and even though our car is buried hip deep in snow…," Sam glanced over at him. "You _still_ want to take on this job?"

"I'm saying…it's what we are. It's _who_ we are. I don't think you could walk out on this anymore than I could."

"What about Hendrickson?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know. We'll have to be careful."

"Careful? We have to be _invisible_."

Dean held out one of his hands in front of him, taking in the motion of his fingers as he curled them into a fist against his palm, remember how inadequate they'd been at breaking him free of the deadly ice.

"Thing is, Sammy," he said softly. "If I don't do this? I kinda already am."

"You are what?"

"Invisible."

Sam set his mug down, half-turning to face him. "No you're not. I see you. And don't forget whose mug shot it is on the Channel 8 news."

Dean felt his mouth tug up into a half-smile. "That's not what I mean."

He couldn't explain to Sam any more than he could clear it up for himself, but without a purpose, without a mission, he felt himself disappearing. Sam didn't need a guardian like he used to. All he needed was a brother. For now. If he didn't do the job—especially when it was _right in front of him_—then what was he?

Sam sighed. "This is crazy."

Dean shrugged. "Sounds like crazy's the only game in town."

He sipped his coffee, working to ignore the sharp pain in his chest that warned of something worse, swallowing the cough that rose up out of that pain. A few aspirin, some food, and Sam by his side, and he was good to go.

"Where you want start?" Sam asked. "And don't say the scene of the crime…since that's the lake."

Dean shivered. "No thanks," he replied. "I've seen enough of the lake to last me awhile." He glanced out through the window. "I was thinking the memorial service."

"Are you kidding? There could be a ton of people there. Law enforcement, the works."

Dean grinned. "So, we do it real quiet like."

Sam dragged a hand down his face. "I'm gonna regret this."

"You're in?" Dean dipped his head, catching Sam's eyes, needed to make sure.

Sam looked back at him. "Stay together, stay alive, right?"

Dean nodded. "Bet your ass."

* * *

**a/n: **Thanks for reading! There will be five chapters total (each posted in two parts on LJ) and the outline has been planned out. I hope you'll stick with me to see how our heroes get out of this mess.

**Playlist: **

_Enter Sandman_ by Metallica

_Don't Look Back_ by Boston


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Chapter 1.

**a/n: **As I wrote this chapter, Lawrence was buried in snow. Drifts taller than my four-year-old blocked our exits; however, we _did_ have snow shovels. *grins* A big thank you to everyone who is reading and commenting; to you anonymous reviewers, I'm sorry I can't reach out directly, but I do appreciate you being here!

We have a bit of a bridge chapter here, but I think it will hold your attention. There is much more to come in the final two chapters. I hope you enjoy!

*sips coffee from No Chick Flick Moments mug and dives in*

* * *

_And here come the waves  
down by the shore  
Washing the soul of the body  
that comes from the depth of the sea_

_~ Ocean_ by Velvet Underground

www

The fire was dying.

The chill in the room was Sam's first clue. The wood had been reduced to fragile, glowing coals. He heard it collapsing across the grate, the sight of the sparks blocked by the position of the couch. The stale smell of fading embers wafted around them, overpowering the cooling coffee in the mug sitting at the tip of his finger's reach.

Sam's head bounced upright on the rubber band that was his neck, gravity slyly working to overpower will. Dean had gone quiet several minutes ago. Sam felt his brother's shoulder resting heavily against his and knew exhaustion had gotten a foothold despite his brother's struggle to rally. Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd been this tired. He was pretty sure it had been finals week his last year at Stanford.

A lifetime ago.

Taking a breath he blinked his eyes wide, arching his back away from the wall and stretching his arms out in front of him. _What we need to do is hide, rest, and heal, _Sam thought

Dean coughed, his chest rattling audibly, his back bouncing slightly against the wall. Sam closed his eyes, tipping his head back, breathing. Somewhere in the world there were people who stayed wrapped up in blankets sipping chicken soup and watching daytime TV if they were unlucky enough to fall into a frozen lake.

Somewhere in the world there were people who rested in dimly lit rooms, taking painkillers and putting cool cloths on their swollen eye after getting knocked out by a ham-sized fist.

"Time 's it anyway?" Dean muttered.

"Dunno. Daylight." Sam replied, not opening his eyes.

Somewhere in the world there were people who slept late, ate right, and never worried about walking wounded into a job they were wholly unprepared for. _That place is not here, _Sam thought sadly.

Dean's impassioned speech moments ago about taking on this hunt may have given them a direction, but finding the next step was the hard part. Sam was tired and hungry. He was worried about being in one place too long. He was scared that one wrong move would hit a beacon on Hendrickson's radar. And he was irritated that they had yet _another_ hunt to focus on that was _not_ going after that yellow-eyed bastard.

"'M starving," Dean sighed, rolling his head on the spike of his neck.

Sam felt the motion against him, felt Dean's shoulder brush his as they sat slumped along the wall in the run-down cabin of an off-duty Marine and his stroke-victim father.

_What the hell are we even _doing_ here_? Sam's thoughts were dark, distracted. He rubbed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose, willing his insistent headache away. Needing it gone.

"You're always starving," Sam grumbled.

He used to think about the future. About what would come _after_ they killed the demon—and they would, he knew; Dad had declared it and Sam knew Dean would make it so. He used to think he'd go back to Stanford. Or at least Palo Alto. He'd liked it there.

"Sue me," Dean muttered, pressing his hands flat against the floor and pushing himself up. "Haven't had anything but jerky and Hostess Pie for two days."

Dean grunted with the effort of rising and Sam peered at him through narrowed eyes, watching as he made it as far as his knees. Stuck in the hazy muck of his discouraged thoughts, Sam simply watched as Dean grabbed for the back of the couch and used the furniture as a prop to haul himself to his feet, not moving to help him stand.

His eyes tracked his brother's trembling efforts as Dean planted his feet, determined to work through whatever pain he was feeling, focused on a new task, a new hunt.

Sam used to imagine he'd become a lawyer after all of this was done. He could see his life so clearly, practically feel the peace of normalcy wrapping around that image. And he realized that he'd known for awhile that it was all a dream. Any _after_ he'd conjured to keep himself sane was a work of fiction.

Life as a hunter wouldn't stop with The Demon.

Dean took a rough breath, then turned to face the kitchen, resting his rear on the back of the couch as he gained his balance.

Sam knew Dean would never stop. He would continue the fight to bring light to the darkness of the world until it killed him. There was no _after_ for Dean. There was just this.

"Maybe Colin has some food we could borrow," Sam suggested, mentally shaking himself free of resistance and quietly engaging in whatever happened next.

"You think it's weird he hasn't come back?" Dean slid his eyes down to where Sam sat against the wall.

"How should I know?" Sam retorted. "I just met the guy."

"Yeah, but didn't you say his dad had a stroke? And he just left him here with two strangers?"

Sam shrugged, sighed, and stood, more than a little surprised that it took him about as much effort as it had taken Dean.

"All I know is," Sam said as he moved away from Dean and into the colder kitchen, "he somehow managed to save my ass from getting thrashed by five really big guys." He opened cupboards, peering inside at the collection of canned food. "And then," he continued, frowning as he searched for a can opener, "he shot you, bailed on me when I tried to get you into the house, and vanished before the sun was up."

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean asked, making his way into the kitchen, his eyes tracking Sam's sporadic movements around the kitchen.

"Looking for a can opener," Sam replied, slamming a drawer shut. "Dude probably uses a machete or something," he muttered under his breath.

"How about someplace in town?" Dean suggested.

"Haven't made it to town yet," Sam informed him.

"Yeah, me neither," Dean sighed.

"Diner?" Sam suggested.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Good a place as any."

"Besides," Sam said, heading for the fireplace where he'd laid the rest of their clothes to dry. "If Cooper is there, maybe we can get more answers."

Looking at the paltry collection of clothes, he glanced over at his brother. Dean was dressed in several layers, but Sam knew it wouldn't be enough. Even now he could see a fine tremor shift through his brother as Dean's body fought back the cold that had nearly killed him. He handed Dean his dark hoodie and the extra Carhartt.

"What about you?" Dean frowned, holding the clothing away from him as if they were on fire.

"I got about three more layers than you, man," Sam replied. "Plus, you just…look cold."

Wordlessly, Dean pulled on the hoodie; Sam felt a pang as he watched him shrug the too-big sweatshirt around to settle better on his shoulders. The last time he'd seen that garment on Dean, he'd been a few sluggish heartbeats away from being taken by a Reaper. He suppressed a shudder as the memory of Dean's staggered, fearful confession from last night slid through him.

"_R-reaper…. C-coming…c-coming f-for m-m-me…."_

Dean pulled the Carhartt on, the torn material at the jacket's shoulder covered by the new layer of cotton with Sam's dark hoodie. Oblivious to Sam's concern, he glanced over his shoulder at the door across the room. "We just leave him up there?"

Sam followed his gaze. "Think we should go tell him we're going?"

"Something," Dean shrugged. "Dude's basically helpless, right?"

Sam half turned toward the stairs, stopping to glance back at Dean as his brother cleared his throat, swallowing a cough.

_What we need to do is hide, rest, and heal,_ he thought again, _and instead we're checking up on a stranger's father before we go to save a town that hasn't even been asked to be saved._

"What?" Dean brought his eyebrows together in wary concern.

"Just…wondering what it's like to be in your head, I guess."

Dean lifted an eyebrow and drew his head back. "You're kinda weirdin' me out, dude."

"Forget it," Sam said softly as he grasped the doorknob and pulled the door to him. "I'd probably end up with nightmares, anyway."

"You're such a freak."

Sam climbed the stairs slowly, noting that the whispered voices he'd heard the night before were silent. "_You're_ the freak," he muttered back at his brother as Dean's boots thumped up the stairs behind him.

They breeched the top of the stairs, Dean tucked up next to Sam so that their heads stuck up out of the hole in the floor, and looked around the dimly-lit room. An empty rocking chair sat in front of a dark TV on one side of a newspaper-covered window. Along the far wall Sam saw a table, a small, dorm-sized refrigerator, and a toilet with a privacy curtain hanging from the ceiling and pulled back against the wall.

Behind them was a twin bed; Wallace lay on the bed, his aged-spot covered face slack, his eyes closed, his mouth hanging open as if the hinges of his jaw had been removed. His arms were bent, clutched up against his chest as if he were holding onto something, but there was nothing in his grip.

"Is he dead?" Dean whispered, sounding all of five.

"God, I hope not," Sam replied softly.

"Shouldn't we check?"

Sam shot Dean a look out of the corner of his eyes, remembering all too clearly Dean's suggestion for checking on Mrs. Thompson.

"How? You got a stick on you?" he asked.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You think you're funny, don't you?"

Sam looked back at Wallace, jerking in surprise and nearly shoving Dean from his balanced perch when he saw the man's eyes were open and staring at him. He heard Dean utter a _sonuvabitch_ beneath his breath.

"Mr., uh…. Wallace?" Sam said, realizing belatedly that he didn't know the man's full name. "We're, uh, we're leaving now, okay?"

Wallace said nothing. His mouth gaped, his eyes stared, his hands clutched at air.

"Okay, so…Colin'll probably be back soon," Sam continued, unnerved by the man's unblinking stare. "Um…."

Dean tugged on Sam's sleeve. "We should go."

"Right, okay." Sam nodded once, tossing an awkward wave at the old man before following his brother down the stairs.

Facing Dean in the cool of the kitchen, Sam matched his brother's raised eyebrows.

"So…that was creepy," Dean said, zipping up his coat.

"Told you," Sam shivered. "Crazy town."

"Let's get this job done and get the hell outta here," Dean pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up.

"We're going to have to hide your face more if we go into that diner," Sam frowned, glancing around. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and found the ski mask he'd been wearing earlier crumpled up inside along with his S.W.A.T. team gloves.

"Why? I've already been there once," Dean said.

"Oh," Sam took a breath, feeling the need to brace himself for more than the cold when he opened the door. "Then just wear this. And keep your hood up. No need to give anyone a good look at you or anything."

"Deny them all this?" Dean waved a hand at his pale, battered countenance. He pulled the ski mask over his head, rolling the face plate up so that it ended up acting as a skull cap. "That's just not fair."

Sam rolled his eyes and opened the door.

www

The cold was a living thing.

Dean was fairly certain he saw a frozen hand reach out and wrap around him, working greedy fingers into the seams and linings of his coat to sap whatever warmth and energy the hours inside the cabin had infused into him.

He tried not to gasp, but it was automatic. The sharp intake of breath immediately turned into a cough that came close to doubling him over as it raked hot fingers along his lungs. He didn't miss Sam's worried glance, and covered it by stepping forward ahead of his long-legged brother.

"I'll grab the bag," Dean said as they headed away from the cabin.

The snow-covered land insulated sound, the quiet amplifying his voice and tossing it around the thicket of trees like a hacky sack.

"What bag?" Sam asked, pulling his own hood up around his ears, having given the only ski mask to Dean. The other one, Dean knew, had been taken by the lake.

Dean shot him a look, finding it necessary to push the hood back a bit to see Sam. The extra material of the sweatshirt stuck out from either side of his head sufficiently that if he used it to his advantage, he could definitely keep his face in shadows.

"You don't think I came all this way without back-up, did you?"

"Weapons?" Sam asked, sounding surprised.

"Hell yeah, _weapons_," Dean replied, turning, his boots crunching the snow. "Come to think of it, where's your gun?"

"It's…." Sam stopped, looking confused. He straightened, glancing back toward the cabin, then pivoted and shot eyes naked with memory toward the lake.

Dean followed his gaze, seeing the chaotic pattern of frantic footsteps and beaten tracks in the snow leading to and from the lake as evidence of what had transpired the night before. Stumbling steps and staggered drag lines clearly marked where Sam had hauled Dean, soaked and freezing, back to the warmth of the cabin.

"Sam?" Dean prodded gently.

"I…I had to use it," Sam said, his voice quavering slightly. He swallowed and looked back at Dean. "I had to use it to get you out of the ice."

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, watching his brother very closely for a moment.

"What?" Sam asked finally. His mouth ticked up in a young, nervous smile, but Dean saw that it stopped just beneath his eyes.

And with that question, Dean felt the shift. He was no longer the one in need of rescue; he could step back into the place where he was most comfortable: watching out for Sam.

"C'mon," he said, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Let's go find it."

"I don't know what happened to it," Sam confessed, turning and following Dean, close enough that their insulated shoulders bounced off of each other. "I don't even remember dropping it."

"I'm willing to bet it's pretty close to the water," Dean said.

The walk had seemed impossible last night; it surprised him how quickly they reached the ice-heavy lake. Dean reached up and rubbed absentmindedly at his shoulder. In an almost instinctive movement, he looked up over Sam's head, remembering the looming specter of the Reaper peering down at him out of the darkness.

"There," Sam was saying. Dean pulled his focus back to his brother. "I shot the water right about there to break the ice."

Dean swallowed a sudden flash of nausea, remembering the crashes of thunder echoing around him as he fought to breathe.

"Okay, so…," he cast about with his eyes. "You broke the ice, dropped the gun so you could reach in and—"

"Found it!" Sam called out, moving past Dean to a small mound of snow just off the edge of the lake. He bent to retrieve the gun, brushing the barrel free of snow and glanced up. Dean saw his eyes hit on something down the length of the lake.

"Think that's where they're holding the memorial?" Sam asked, straightening.

Dean turned and peered down the lake to where a couple of people were assembling a raised platform. It was far enough away that the people looked like GI Joe figures and they couldn't hear anything that might've been said.

"That'd be my guess."

He heard Sam take a breath. "Food first."

Dean nodded. "And coffee," he amended. "Lots and _lots_ of coffee."

"Y'know, we can't just walk into that place with a bag full of weapons, Dean."

Dean scowled at his brother and made his way back to where he'd left the duffle at the base of the tree outside the cabin. He felt another cough climb its way up his chest; he knew he needed to keep this under control.

_I'd give my right arm for a glass of water right about now. Or some whiskey._

"I mean it," Sam stressed. "This town is—"

"Crazy," Dean interrupted. "I heard you the first seven times."

"I'm just saying…no reason to fuel the fire."

Dean kicked snow off of the bag, crouching down and fumbling with the zipper until he opened it. He glanced up at Sam, squinting as the sun that managed to penetrate the trees shot down around his brother like pillars of light. Sam was gingerly touching the bruises around his eye and Dean felt a surge of heated anger in his chest.

"Fine," he conceded. "One weapon each. I'll stash the bag here for later."

Sam nodded, checking the Beretta's clip. "You bring ammo? I'm down four."

Dean shook his head. "If you have to use it, make each shot count."

He pulled his knife from the duffle and caught his breath as he lifted his layers of clothes, exposing his back to the elements, and slid the blade encased in its hard, leather sheath into his waistband at the small of his back. Clearing his throat, he zipped the bag closed, then glanced toward the cabin.

"How much do you trust this Colin guy?" he asked his brother.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "How much do we trust anyone?"

"Good point," Dean nodded. He looked over his shoulder at a cluster of trees. "I'll bury the bag here. We'll come back for it later."

They were quiet as they headed toward the diner. The cold sucked the sound from around them, making their synchronized footfalls reverberate against the trees. Finally giving in to the insistent demand of his lungs, Dean coughed into the crook of his elbow, feeling the catch in his chest.

"We going to have to do something about that," Sam declared.

"How's your head?" Dean deflected.

"I'll be fine."

"So will I."

"I'm not the one that took the polar bear plunge, Dean," Sam glanced at him.

"I get it," Dean snapped. "You're worried. Let's just move on, okay?"

Sam took a breath as they approached the parking lot. "I just hope Paul Bunyan and his friends aren't there."

"They the ones that jumped you?"

Sam nodded, his fingers finding his bruised eye.

Dean rolled his shoulders back, grabbing the door handle. "In that case…I hope they _are_."

The diner was quiet, but the heat wrapped around them and Dean felt his cheeks tingle as the skin soaked in the warmth. Stomping the snow from their boots, they pulled off their gloves. Sam reached up to push his hood back and Dean mirrored his action, catching himself just in time. He pulled the ski mask from his head instead, keeping his hood in place.

"I smell coffee," he almost groaned, leading the way through the entrance alcove and into the main room.

The booths and tables were empty. One man sat with his back to them at the bar; Dean heard the rustle of newspaper. The low hum of a radio could be heard now that they were further inside and from behind the swinging door Dean picked up the sounds of a kitchen.

"Cooper?" Sam called out quietly.

The man half-turned, his profile displaying frank surprise. "Hey, there, kid!"

Sam moved past Dean and crossed to the counter. "You sleep here or something?"

Cooper turned the rest of the way around, taking Dean in with a quick sweep of sharp eyes. "As a matter of fact, I did. Mandy has an apartment in the back. Makes her husband sleep there when he's not stepping-to."

Dean cleared his throat, trying to keep himself from lustfully eyeing the mug of coffee he saw just beyond Cooper's fingertips.

"You found each other, then?"

Sam nodded, glancing over at Dean. "Didn't quite make it to town, though."

Dean saw Cooper frown as he peered more closely at Sam's face. "You walk into a tree, kid?"

"No," Dean snapped, hunger getting the better of him. "Couple of fine, upstanding Lethe citizen's jumped him near that cabin out by the lake."

Cooper's eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed with suspicion. "Marshall?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "They didn't stop to introduce themselves first."

"Dammit," Cooper cursed, rubbing his slim-fingered hand across his mouth, a day's growth of white whiskers rubbing against his palm with a soft rasp. "You hungry?"

Their nods were in unison and enthusiastic.

"Sit down," Cooper nodded toward two stools. "I'll find Mandy."

Cooper stood and Dean slid onto the stool next to the one he'd vacated. The cough he'd been suppressing took advantage of his distraction and burst forth with surprising ferocity. His eyes watered, and he pressed a hand to his chest in an effort to keep his ribs from breaking.

"Son, you sound like a dying seal," Cooper frowned, pushing the swinging door open and calling to Mandy. "Got some hungry travelers here."

Dean could hear the surprisingly full-bodied voice of the woman he'd met the night before calling back that she'd have food out in a jiffy. Cooper came back toward them, grabbing two coffee mugs on his way. When he set the mug in front of Dean and filled it with steaming coffee from the carafe behind him, Dean was tempted to kiss him.

"Black, right?" Cooper asked.

"Right." Dean nodded, sipping the steaming beverage and sighing as he felt the liquid warmth spill down inside of him.

"You?" Cooper asked Sam.

"He likes a little coffee with his cream and sugar," Dean teased, draining his mug and setting it down for more. He cleared his throat, watching as Sam first scowled at him, then nodded reluctantly to Cooper that Dean was right.

"I don't remember you sounding like that when you came in last night," Cooper said, eyeing Dean.

"He fell in the lake," Sam interjected.

"You what?" Cooper exclaimed.

"It's a long story," Dean sighed. "But…uh, yeah. I fell through the ice."

Cooper's eyes bounced between them, his head tilting as if he could pick up on words left unsaid. "I've got something back at my office that could help that cough."

"Thought you were the Medical Examiner," Dean replied.

"I am."

"So…don't you usually deal with…y'know…_dead_ people?"

Cooper arched a wild eyebrow, his heavily-lined lips pursing with amusement. "In a town this size, you need to multi-task. I'm also trained in internal medicine."

Dean's eyes caught on the swinging door leading from the kitchen. "That's handy," he commented dryly, shoving his hood back away from his face. "You get them on either side of the great divide. Win win."

Cooper chuckled while Sam drove a warning elbow into his side. Dean knew his brother didn't like that he wasn't disguising himself, but he was close enough to Cooper now that the man had already gotten a good look at his face. He figured it wouldn't matter now.

Dean ignored any other warning glances from Sam as Mandy slid two plates of potatoes, eggs, bacon, and toast in front of them. He'd finished the bacon before Sam had unwrapped the paper napkin from around his silverware.

"You still headed into town for supplies?" Cooper asked, leaning against the other side of the bar and sipping his coffee.

Dean felt his body settling happily as he shoveled the potatoes into his mouth. He let Sam answer for both of them.

"Unless you can spare your truck and winch," Sam answered around a mouthful of food.

Mandy shot an anxious glance at Cooper, but the M.E. missed it. Dean wasn't surprised; the woman's diminutive stature dictated that one needed to be looking directly at her to catch subtle glances and warnings.

"You can't leave town before the memorial," Mandy declared when Cooper didn't look her way.

"I'm not going anywhere," Cooper said quietly, his eyes on Sam, not Mandy. "I made a promise."

Dean slid his eyes to the side. He caught Sam's quick glance and picked up on the non-verbal cue to kick-start the hunt. Since they were young, they'd been able to roll with each other's rhythm when dealing with strangers—even better than John. There was a cadence to their approach that belied the differences of their views of the world.

"So, Sammy tells me that your Sheriff is talking at this memorial thing," Dean began. "Did he know the woman who died?"

Cooper frowned, looking into the dregs of his coffee cup as if an answer might leap out at him. "I don't believe anyone did."

"Heard a report on the radio that said she was left behind when the old town was flooded," Dean pressed, using the edges of his toast to clean the remnants of eggs from his plate.

Cooper looked down at Mandy. Her large eyes stared back unblinking and Dean felt a chill, grateful that it wasn't him she was stripping bare this time.

"Don't believe the stuff you hear on the radio or read in papers about this situation, boys," Cooper said, his voice almost stern. "There's a lot of sensationalism going on. And there's not many who live here now that lived in Old Lethe."

"Still," Sam shrugged, pushing his empty plate back. "From what I overheard in here yesterday afternoon…sounds like a pretty bizarre situation. What with the Mayor's death and all. It's gotta be tough for you guys."

Dean coughed into his shoulder, trying to keep his eyes on Cooper. He could tell the man was choosing his words carefully; there was something he didn't want to say, but at the same time, Dean got the sense that the M.E. was looking for help.

Or an escape.

"Not everyone was on board with the idea of relocating the town to turn it into a…vacation spot." Cooper turned away and grabbed a spare carafe of coffee, refilling the mugs.

Mandy made her way around the end of the bar and climbed up onto the stool next to Dean's, quietly listening. And, Dean suspected, keeping Cooper honest.

"There were three guys who started it, right?" Sam asked. "Jones, Tolliver, and Mead?"

Cooper looked at him quickly. "Where'd you hear that?"

"The guy who stopped Marshall and his friends from pounding on me," Sam said, leaning forward, his elbows propped on the edge of the bar.

Dean felt his brother warming to the topic; Sam was in his element, drawing the man closer, reminding him that he'd been wounded by people in this town, innocently asking for more information. There were certain things Sam was just very, very good at.

Cooper, properly chagrined as Sam had wanted him to be, rubbed his mouth again. "Yeah, those are the three guys who started us down this path," Cooper nodded. "But enough of us went willingly that they can't be blamed for—"

He stopped suddenly.

Sam smiled encouragingly. "Blamed for what? Sounds like you have a great place here. I mean, just the way you guys are trying to protect it from all of the media attention is admirable. What would anyone want to blame them for?"

Cooper looked at Sam with an expression that made him drop his smile like it was something that bit him. Dean straightened, his shoulders squaring as the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

"Son, the less you know about this town the better," Cooper said quietly. "I suggest you and your brother get the supplies you need to get your car out and be on your way."

Dean ran a tongue over his bottom lip and glanced at Sam. He saw in his brother's expression a chance to leave this behind them, no harm, no foul. And for a moment, he wavered.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this hunt wasn't for them. Maybe they could just…go.

"One of these days," Mandy interjected, her voice weighted with secrets, "the truth is going to break through the edge of these trees and everyone touched will pay a price."

Dean kept his eyes on Sam, saw the reluctant regret slide across his brother's face. They couldn't walk away. He opened his mouth to tell Cooper how they could help when a cough took him by surprise, shaking through him and blurring his vision as he tried to balance his intake of air.

When he could breathe again, he looked up and around; three pairs of eyes were trained on him.

"You got a lozenge?" he asked helplessly.

"You sound like you're working on pneumonia," Cooper declared. "How'd you end up in the lake again?"

Dean shot a warning glance at Sam. "Long story," he reiterated. "Listen, if you're heading into town for that memorial, maybe we could hitch a ride? Get that shovel?"

Sam nodded in agreement. He was no more eager to walk through the cold than Dean was. Cooper looked over at Mandy, who shrugged in return.

"You know as well as I do anyone who'd come by now would find another way to get into town if they really wanted to," Mandy told him. "You're not doing anyone any good hanging out here, Coop. 'Sides. I got a tough husband back there," she nodded toward the kitchen, "and I'm not afraid to use him."

Cooper looked down, his frown digging even deeper furrows into his lined face. He nodded reluctantly and looked back at Sam and Dean.

"You need anything else?"

The brothers shook their heads in unison.

"All right then," the M.E. sighed. "Let's go."

Dean slid from his stool and reached into his pocket for cash, belatedly realizing he had left everything back in the Impala. He looked at Sam who was doing the same thing.

"Uh, Mandy," Dean started.

Mandy swiveled on the stool, looking from him to Sam. "Don't worry about it," she said. "You two look like you needed hot meal. Tell you what; wash some dishes for me later to make up for it."

Dean grinned. "You got it."

To his amazement, the woman blushed. Her features softened and her eyes twinkled. He pulled up his hood, winking at her as he turned away. He caught Sam's eye-roll as Mandy whispered behind them, "And who could say no to that, I ask you?"

Dean tried not to think too much about the cold as they made their way from the diner to Cooper's truck. He climbed into the back jump seat in the extended-cab as Sam settled his longer legs in the front. Cooper cranked the heat up the moment the truck rumbled to life.

"What did Mandy mean about secrets?" Sam asked as soon as Cooper shifted into reverse.

Dean had to hand it to his brother; Sam was going to get to the bottom of this hunt in record time.

Cooper scowled. "Kid," he muttered, turning the steering wheel full circle with the flat of his hand. "Someone had to know that woman. She wasn't a tourist. And she'd been in that water for a number of years, based on her remains."

"How'd you identify her?" Dean asked. "I thought those kinds of things took awhile."

Sam looked over his shoulder at him, eyebrows up.

"What? I read," Dean replied. "_CSI_ is totally misleading."

Sam's mouth quirked down a small grin.

"It usually does. But…," Cooper corrected a slight fishtail on the snow, "we had her dental records on file."

"So, she used to live in Lethe?" Sam asked.

"Old Lethe," Cooper corrected. "I was surprised myself. I never met the old physician. I took over the job about a year before they made the decision to blow the dam. Used to be a real nice place."

"It's not anymore?" Dean asked.

"It's…nice. Just…," Cooper slowed as they crossed over a cattle guard and pulled onto a nearly-deserted main street of New Lethe. "…exclusive."

Dean looked through the small back window at the town everyone was intent on protecting. It looked like a mixture of a Hollywood movie set and a boutique spa. The main road was cobblestone, sending the passengers in Cooper's truck bouncing and jostling against the window and edges of the bench seat. The sidewalks were extra wide and had paths marked specifically for bikes. Storefronts had large windows with store names painted in coordinated colors.

He saw several restaurants and clothing shops, a library, small police station, an organic grocery store, a general store, and a movie theater with three screens. It was quaint, quiet, and it gave him chills.

Cooper turned right at the edge of a white clapboard building with the symbol of a prescription painted on the window. It was one building down from the police station.

"What's that place between you and the police station?" Dean asked.

"That's the county building," Cooper replied. "We have a pretty intricate basement access system to get from building to building. And all parking is in back lots—keeps the streets cleaner and safer."

"Uh-huh," Sam and Dean replied together.

"No hospital?" Sam asked, leaning forward and peering around the corner. "Churches? Schools?"

"There's an emergency clinic on the lake, and my office. Anything we can't treat we airlift to Madison. Two churches—Baptists and Catholics. Up on the hill there," Cooper tipped his head to the left. "One school, back up thataway. Kindergarten through 12th grade, one building."

"Cozy," Dean remarked.

"Not a lot of school-aged kids in a resort town like this," Cooper told them. "Most just come in for the summer. Or did before the lake dropped. All the residential houses are to the West and the vacation cottages are to the East, toward Lethe Lake."

He pulled to a stop in a small parking lot graced by only two other cars. They climbed from the truck and Dean immediately heard the dull hum of voices in the distance. Turned around by his ride into town, he rotated, trying to get his bearings as to where the memorial was being held. He saw a growing crowd of people to his left, down around the curve of a crystallized lake.

"Come on in," Cooper said. "I'll get you something for that cough."

Dean nodded and joined Sam behind the M.E. As they entered the back of his office, the unmistakable scent of formaldehyde wrapped around them. Sam pulled his collar over his nose and Dean coughed into the crook of his arm.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Cooper said, flicking on lights as he led them further into the office. The smell abated as they continued further. "The back entrance is right above the morgue and there's not a lot of ventilation. Unfortunately. Always get a pretty big whiff when you first come in."

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam who simply shook his head in a _don't go there_ warning.

"Now," Cooper said to Dean, motioning to an exam table. "Go ahead and get out of those coats."

"Whoa, wait," Dean lifted his hands in warning. "I just need something to help my cough is all."

"I need to listen to your lungs, make sure we're not dealing with something more serious," Cooper pointed out.

"No offence, but," Dean shook his head, taking a step back. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time. I think I'd know if it was worse than a cough."

Sam looked away, not saying anything. Cooper tilted his head.

"Is this your way of saying you don't trust me?" Cooper asked.

Dean swallowed, unwilling to punctuate his resistance with another cough that would indicate he was sicker than he'd admit.

"Fine." Cooper nodded, pushing his lips out in reluctance. "I've got something here that will suppress that cough. But if you start having pain in your chest, or feel like you can't breathe, you need to get help right away, agreed?"

"You bet," Dean nodded.

"How about you?" Cooper looked at Sam.

"I'm not coughing," Sam replied, blinking innocently.

"How's your head? That eye?"

"Not great, but I've had worse," Sam said.

Cooper arched an eyebrow. "You got anything against ibuprofen?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "I'm a big fan, actually."

"Mmhmm," Cooper narrowed his eyes at them, then reached behind the door for a key. "You two wait here. I'll be back."

The moment Cooper was out of earshot, the brothers turned to each other.

"You should have let him examine you," Sam declared.

"He's got records from the previous doctor here," Dean stated at the same time.

"What?" they echoed. Dean jutted his chin out in a _really? _gesture.

Sam lifted a hand. "You first."

"We need to look at those records," Dean stated.

"Huh?" Sam asked. "Records? What records?"

"Where've you been, man?" Dean turned his hands out from his side in question. "Body? Drowning Mayor? Hunt?"

"I know, Dean, but," Sam darted his eyes out through the opened door. "He said you could have pneumonia."

Dean waved him off. "I'm fine. Listen, the sooner we figure out whose spirit we're dealing with here, the sooner we can leave. Agreed?"

Sam folded his lips together, his eyes pouting. "Fine."

"Okay, so if they cremated the remains _before_ the Mayor went belly up, it can't be her."

"Unless they didn't get everything," Sam pointed out. "I mean, they said she floated up from the lake, right? Could be some hair or something still down there."

"Good point," Dean nodded. "I think we need to see those files. Find out where she might've lived in Old Lethe."

"What about the Mayor?" Sam asked. "I mean, Cooper said he drowned, but…what is his connection to the woman?"

"Other than being one of the reasons her town was flooded you mean?"

Sam looked at him, his eyes troubled. "Well, if _that's_ the reason, there's at least two more people in danger, man."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. His clothes were beginning to weigh on him, rubbing on too-sensitive skin. His ribs were beginning to ache from holding back the hacking cough that threatened to overpower him at every turn. He cleared his throat, breathing shallowly.

"Right," Dean moved over to the doorway, peering out. The hall was still empty. "One is the Sheriff, right? Mead?"

"Yeah."

"Who's the other guy?"

"Somebody named Tolliver," Sam said. "No idea."

Dean glanced back at him. "I think we need to tell Cooper."

"Tell him what?"

"The truth."

"No, Dean." Sam's face was set.

"Dude, if we're going to get this information, in a town like this, we're gonna need someone on the inside."

Sam took a step forward, slicing a hand through the air in a declaration. "_No_, Dean. We told Ronald, remember? And it got him killed."

Dean felt himself go cold inside then spike hot in reaction to Sam's words. He clenched his jaw, watching as Sam took a step back.

"The shifter never touched him," Dean reminded his brother, hearing the chill in his voice. "And he was there, in that bank, because we weren't _honest_ with him."

Sam swallowed. "He's still dead," he said defiantly, as if he knew he wasn't being fair but purposely poked at Dean's resolve anyway.

Dean held his brother's eyes, feeling a flooding backlog of emotions surge forward. His physical defenses were low and he knew that tended to thin out his normally impenetrable walls, but for a moment he didn't care. They were alone in this fight—alone and weakened and without chance of rescue. He thought back to the hunt he'd told Sam about—the night with the werewolf in the basement.

Dad had called for reinforcements. He'd had a back-up plan. Aside from Bobby, Dean didn't know anyone they could call to fill in this void. Ellen, maybe. But even then, how could he just walk away? Just leave town knowing there was a spirit seeking vengeance?

If nothing else, he was a hunter. He had a job to do. But he couldn't push to get the job done while fighting Sam at every turn. He just didn't have enough left in him.

He felt the fire drain from his eyes with that realization, watched Sam see it happen. His face settled into a blank mask and he saw Sam's shoulders square up in reaction.

"What do _you_ want to do, Sam?"

He heard the surrender in his words, felt himself giving in, letting go of the grip of control he'd fought for just hours ago on the floor of the cabin.

Sam stared at him, his normally eloquent eyes momentarily unreadable. His nostrils flared as if working to keep his cool, keep emotion at bay. He was breathing faster than normal, and Dean could see his fingers clenching and unclenching in the periphery of his glance.

"Found it," Cooper called as he approached the front office once more.

His sudden voice caused Dean to jerk, so intent had his focus been on Sam's next words. He didn't look away from his brother.

"Had to go down to the storeroom, but I found—" Cooper turned the corner, stopping when he saw the brothers standing in a face-off. "—it."

"Cooper," Sam said, his voice like gravel. "We need to talk."

www

The shot of cough syrup that Cooper had given Dean seemed to be working. Sam noticed that his brother wasn't clearing his throat every two seconds in an effort to keep that bone-rattling cough at bay. The ibuprofen Cooper had given Sam was staving off his headache nicely.

But the M.E. looked awful.

"And you knew nothing about all of this ghost hunter stuff going in New Lethe when you headed our way?" Cooper was asking, his elbows on his desk, his face in his hands.

"No, sir," Dean replied. "I know all of this is a little hard to believe, but—"

"_A little_?" Cooper brought his head up. "Son, I deal in fact. Incontrovertible proof. Science. Not…ghouls and ghosties."

"We're not talking about ghouls," Dean replied. "Spirits are—"

"Dean," Sam said softly, putting a hand on his brother's arm to quiet him. "Cooper, I can imagine this is all a bit…weird. Especially with the so-called ghost hunters you've been trying to keep out of your town."

Dean slouched down on top of a short filing cabinet, his hands hanging between his knees, watching Cooper. Sam continued.

"But we've been doing this our whole lives. And we have seen enough to _have_ incontrovertible proof that spirits exist."

"And that they go around seeking revenge like in some…," Cooper waved his hands in the air, "…Stephen King novel?"

"Sometimes, yeah," Dean replied. "The newspaper guy that Sam was talking about? He's actually kinda on the right track. I mean, he gives real hunters a bad name, but…he has a point."

Cooper shook his head. "I just…I don't believe it." He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I won't."

Sam pulled his lower lip into his mouth, trying to pick the direction that would convince this man that they weren't full of shit and needed his help. He didn't want to be wrong in sharing the truth with the Medical Examiner. He didn't want to be wrong in trusting Dean's instincts.

"You examined Mayor Jones, right?"

Cooper looked up at him. "Yes."

"And you concluded, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he drowned."

Cooper frowned. "Yes. His lungs were full of water."

"Was it fluid?" Dean asked, picking up on Sam's track. "Like if he had, say, pneumonia?"

Cooper pulled away from Dean slightly, though Dean hadn't moved from his perch on the filing cabinet.

"Or maybe tap water?" Sam pressed. "Maybe someone had shoved his face in the sink and positioned the body?"

"No…." Cooper shook his head slowly, his gaze turning inward, mental heels digging in.

"It was lake water, wasn't it?" Dean asked quietly. "And that's why you're hung up on blame. You don't know the whole story, but you know there's a story there."

Cooper pressed his lips out as if he were sucking the marrow from his next words; his voice was rough as he allowed each one to fall into the tension-heavy air.

"There were…rumors. Whispered conversations. Gossip, really. All about how the dam had been blown before the final sweep of the town was completed because The Big Three rushed the deadline."

"The Big Three?" Dean asked.

Cooper glanced at him. "Mead, Tolliver, and Jones."

"What did you think about these rumors?" Sam asked.

"Not much," Cooper sighed. "Mainly because they started after Judge McAvoy died and no one could find this lock box of cash he supposedly had. People started saying it was still back in his house in Old Lethe."

"Is that what the kids were looking for when they found the body?" Sam guessed.

Cooper nodded. "Trying to save the town—and get their father's attention I suspect."

"And you're sure no one knew the woman," Dean circled back. "No connections with any of The Big Three? Even in her medical records?"

Cooper shook his head. "Nothing that jumped out at me."

"Who still lives in Lethe that might remember someone from the old town?" Dean asked.

"Maybe…Tolliver? He was Judge McAvoy's assistant. Mead came on as sheriff about the same time I moved to town. The former Sheriff had a stroke."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, we know."

Cooper looked up at that, but said nothing. "A lot of the people from the old town took the money for their property and moved somewhere else. I can only think of maybe a dozen or so that were here before I came and stayed after New Lethe was built."

Sam looked over at his brother, noting the sag in Dean's shoulders, the shadows under his eyes. The second wind that had carried Dean this far was fading. They needed to think of what to do next and act on it before that fire that drove his brother was extinguished and he collapsed under the weighted curse of his own humanity.

"Let's just…talk rhetorically for a minute," Sam tried, still looking at Dean. "Say there _are_ such things as spirits, for the sake of argument. The only way to stop them is to burn the bones."

Cooper looked almost triumphant. "Well, you've just talked yourself into a corner then because we burned the remains before Mayor Jones drowned."

"You burned what you found," Dean pointed out. "But you don't know if you burned everything."

"Everything?" Cooper frowned.

"A spirit could hold onto any little bit of their physical self—even a small piece of hair," Dean informed him.

"So what you're saying is, if I believe you, that means we have to go down to where the body was found and…search for _hair_?"

The brothers nodded.

"All just to prove that a _ghost_ drowned Jones with lake water?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "You said you deal with fact. Does anyone have any leads on who in this town might've wanted to kill Mayor Jones?"

Cooper dropped his face in his hands once more.

"Cooper," Dean said after a few moments of silence. "It's, uh…, it's also possible that your friends could be in trouble."

"My friends?" Cooper asked without lifting his head.

"Mead and Tolliver," Sam clarified. "We need to—"

"Protect them from a _spirit_? How the hell are we supposed to do that?" Cooper looked up at the brothers, his face a picture of disbelief. "It's been over a week since we buried Jones. Wouldn't this so-called spirit have attacked by now?"

Dean cleared his throat and Sam looked over quickly. His brother was focused on Cooper, his face grim, serious, but Sam could see a fine sheen of sweat gathering at his temples.

"Listen," Dean said, weariness making his voice sharp. "Either you believe us, or you don't. We can help you, but not if you fight us. And honestly? I'm too damn tired to try to convince you."

Cooper stared at him for a long moment. Sam's eyes darted between the M.E. and his brother, waiting.

"I'm sorry, boys," Cooper shook his head, his gaze sliding slowly to his desk. "I just don't buy it. No offense, but…it's just too crazy."

Sam shot a pre-emptive warning look at his brother, but saw that Dean wasn't looking at him or Cooper. He'd dropped his eyes to his lap and was twisting his silver ring around his finger as he often did when lost in thought.

"Cooper," Sam said, rubbing his hands along the sides of his coat. "If we promise not to mention spirits, would you help us poke around a bit more?"

"Why would you want to?" Cooper challenged. "Why not just wait until I can get your car out and leave?"

"Believe me, I'd love to," Sam confessed, glancing once more at his brother. "But—"

"But," Dean broke in looking at Cooper. "Sometimes things are true whether you believe them or not. And we can't just walk away."

Sam nodded once in agreement.

Cooper pursed his lips, his bright eyes taking them in. "What do you want to do?"

"Mead's speaking at the memorial in a little bit, right?" Sam asked.

Cooper nodded.

"You know where Tolliver is? Would he be there?"

Cooper tipped his hands up in a shrug. "Either there or at his office."

"We want to talk to them," Sam said. "Find out what they know about this woman."

Cooper dragged a hand down his face. "If they knew anything about Josephine Sanderson, they would have said something by now."

Sam saw Dean bring his chin up. "Say that again?"

"They would have said something—"

"No, no…what did you say her name was?"

Cooper lifted an eyebrow. "Josephine Sanderson."

"What are you thinking?" Sam asked him, watching as Dean's eyes darted in thought, his brows pulled close over the bridge of his nose.

"Something…. Can't put my finger on it," Dean muttered, his voice distracted as he searched his memory.

"Didn't the radio report have her name?" Sam asked, confused.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, shaking his head helplessly. "Yeah, it did. Just…something…. Eh, forget it. It'll come to me." Dean looked over at Sam. "You go with Cooper to the memorial and talk to Mead. I'll check out Tolliver's office."

"Dean—" Sam started to protest.

"Divide and conquer, Sam," Dean pressed. "Besides," he pulled the hood up, shadowing his face, "like you said, there'll be a lot of people at the memorial."

Sam took a breath. "Right. Don't suppose your cell phone still works?"

Dean took his phone from the pocket of his jacket. "Dead. Phones don't like icy lakes, I guess."

"Was afraid of that," Sam muttered. "Okay, we go, we see what we can find out, we meet back here in…two hours?"

"Works for me. Cooper?"

"I still say this is crazy," Cooper said, following the brothers out of the office and turning off the lights. "But I can't allow a murderer to go free. Even a dead one."

www

Dean felt terrible.

An ache built across his back; the bones seeming to twist against each other. His clothes were too heavy, his skin too sensitive. The groove Colin's bullet cut across his shoulder throbbed. His ribs hurt, his eyes burned, and he could hear his breath rattle. All-in-all, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the next decade.

But that weakness only fueled an angry fire in him—one that sprang to life when he'd heard Hendrickson on the other end of the phone working to classify his father as a _whacko_. This anger had a voice, whispering to him that he couldn't stop, not ever. Not even when they killed that yellow-eyed bastard that started this mess. He had to make it count—his life, John's life. The sacrifices they'd forced Sam to make.

He had to make it _all_ count.

Following Cooper's directions, he burrowed deeper into his coat and made his way down the back alley to Tolliver's law offices. Half-way there, he dry-swallowed four ibuprofen he'd snagged from the bottle Cooper had given Sam. He had to keep it together long enough to get this spirit, get the Impala and get the hell out of Lethe without triggering Hendrickson's radar.

He was alone on the street. It seemed that everyone who was anyone in Lethe was gathering at the memorial, which by the smells wafting his way had turned into more of a pot-luck carnival than a somber and respectful display for the memory of the dead. Coughing into his shoulder and regretting not taking more of the cough syrup with him, Dean stopped at the back door of the law office.

It took him less than a minute to jimmy the lock and let himself in.

"Hello mister lawyer-man," Dean called too softly for anyone to hear. "Don't mind me…just here dust off the skeletons in your closet."

The building was set up much the same as Cooper's office, with a long hallway and a series of doors that after quick inspection turned out to be empty offices, supply closets, or bathrooms. One led to a small kitchen and Dean ducked inside, relieving the refrigerator of someone's sack lunch of turkey and cheese on wheat.

Munching quietly, Dean found a door with a brass name plate reading _William Tolliver._

"There you are, Mr. Tolliver," Dean opened the door, peering up a flight of stairs. "Tolliver. Sounds like a health food bar." Shoving the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, he headed up the stairs. "I hate health food bars."

No one was in the office, but the room was a complete disaster.

It seemed that Tolliver didn't believe in filing cabinets. Stacks upon stacks of papers and folders decorated the floor in a maze leading from the stairs to a large, wooden desk. A bank of windows lit up the room with the gray winter sunlight. A computer sat dark and silent on the desktop. Off to one side was a closet with accordion doors bent to expose an equally messy collection of coats, shoes, ties, and more files.

Peering into the partially opened closet, Dean muttered, "No room for skeletons in there."

He turned a full circle in the room, clasping his fingers on top of his head and sliding the hood back as he dropped his arms. He had no idea where to begin.

"Shoulda put on a fake mustache and switched places with you, Sammy," he said softly, making his way over to the computer.

Jostling the mouse he woke the screen and growled at the curser blinking on the password window.

"Talk to me, Geek-Boy," he whispered, trying to climb inside Sam's mind. "What word would you choose?"

He knew virtually nothing about Tolliver except what Cooper had revealed. Helplessly he typed _Lethe_, then _Lethe Lake_. Both yielded nothing, as he'd suspected. The computer tossed up a warning that he had one attempt left before the system administrator was contacted.

Snarling a curse at the screen, Dean pulled at his bottom lip. Cooper had said that Tolliver was an assistant to the Judge rumored to have the lock box of money.

"What the hell," he whispered and typed in _McAvoy_. The desktop screen immediately appeared. "Yahtzee!" He cried out triumphantly. "Who has the mad skills now, huh?"

Tolliver's computer was even less organized than his office. Dean rubbed at his temples, his head aching as he tried to figure out how to find answers to questions he didn't know how to ask. Closing his eyes he narrowed his focus.

_What do I need to know _right now_? _

He needed to know what this man knew of Josephine Sanderson.

He brought up a search window, directed it to search all files, then typed in _Sanderson_. The computer began whirring. Dean stood and looked out through the windows. From this vantage point, he could see the edges of the crowd gathered for the memorial. A group of men stood on the recently built platform, one of them at a speaker's podium. He could see Sam standing apart from the crowd, alone, watching the man as he spoke.

The street in front of the building was paved, not cobblestone, and a couple men dressed in flannel were gathered in a doorway. Dean could see small clouds of smoke snaking from their alcove.

"Better watch out, boys," Dean _tsked_ them. "Something tells me The Firm doesn't encourage smoking."

The computer beeped behind him and Dean turned to see several files opening in a cascade on the monitor. Bending close to the screen he saw that it was a series of emails and letters, all from Tolliver and addressed to either Jones or Mead. They were dated over the course of several months, four years ago.

Scanning quickly, Dean saw the name _Sanderson_ in the first letter. Tolliver was advising Mead on how to handle 'him' and stated that if Mead wanted to be sheriff he'd have to start making the tough calls. Dean sat in the chair, reading further. The more he read, the more obvious it became that Sanderson was not an advocate of the plan for New Lethe.

"Him, him, him," Dean muttered. "This is all about a _guy_ named Sanderson." He continued to click on the different files. "So who is Josephine?"

The sound of a doorknob being turned brought Dean's head up quickly. He could hear someone at the base of the stairs, working to open the door. He stood quickly and turned in a circle, searching for an escape. The only option was the windows. He tried to turn the latch on the first he saw, but it was painted shut.

_Shit!_

Thinking quickly, Dean scrambled across the room and slipped silently into the closet, pressing back against the wall, the coats and suits covering him. He tried to breathe shallowly, the heavy scent of cologne and mothballs on the material surrounding him triggering the cough Cooper's syrup had tried to suppress.

He listened intently as whoever entered the office moved around. Heavy footfalls made their way to the closet. Someone pulled the doors wide and pushed the coats on the opposite end from Dean out of the way. He tightened his stomach muscles to hold his balance, peering through the hanger tops to see a heavy-set, balding man wearing rimless glasses and covered in sweat.

He could only surmise this was Tolliver. The man lifted what looked like a shoebox over his head and slid it onto an empty space on the shelf above.

Dean saw a wedding ring, a Timex, and the frayed cuff of a suit jacket before the man retreated, sliding the door of the closet partially closed. Dean exhaled in relief, but to his chagrin, felt the pressure of what promised to be a bone-rattling cough build in his chest. Swallowing convulsively, he covered his mouth, pressing his fingers into his cheeks.

"What the—"

He heard the creak of a chair as Tolliver sat heavily and only then realized what he'd left up on the computer screen. His eyes began to water as he tried to keep his cough at bay.

"Who's here?" Tolliver called out to the empty office. "I know you're here!"

Dean swallowed again, working to find a plausible story for why he was hiding in the man's closet before his weakened lungs gave him away.

"What are you doing here? You can't…it's impossible!" Tolliver's voice was panicked, scared.

Dean frowned, confused. He started to pull his hand away, intending to reach out and part the clothes when Tolliver uttered a strangled scream of protest.

"No! You've got it all wrong! We didn't know! I swear to you! We didn't kn—"

The scream turned into a horrific gagging sound and Dean pushed his way out of the closet, his lungs exploding up his throat and through his mouth, sending him to his knees next to Tolliver's desk as the cough wrecked him. His vision blurred as he reached blindly for the edge of the desk, pulling himself to his feet to confront whoever it was that Tolliver had been talking to.

There was no one in the room except for him and the man convulsing in his desk chair.

Dean rushed up to Tolliver, his hands going to the man's face, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Hey! Hey, man…easy, easy, easy…. Breathe!"

But Tolliver was beyond reassurance, beyond comfort. The veins on his neck protruded in thick, bluish tracks, his face was a mottled shade of red and purple, his arms appeared pinned to his sides. Dean tried to get the man out of the chair and onto the floor, desperate to get him to breathe, to stop the horrible gagging sound.

_What the hell? Heart attack? Seizure?_

He couldn't move him. It was almost as if Tolliver was being held down, pinned to the chair.

And then gagging changed. It was the sound of a drain filling up, water replacing air.

Dean jerked back in horrified surprise as water suddenly bubbles up from Tolliver's open mouth spilling over his chin and cheeks, soaking his collar and running down his chest to form a growing puddle under the chair.

"Shit!" He spat, moving his feet to avoid the spreading wetness.

In seconds, everything stopped: the noise, the shaking, the water. Tolliver went still, his color rapidly fading to a grayish white, his eyes locked on nothing.

Dean stood there, staring in shock, shaking; adrenalin and fear warring for control of his muscles. Turning away, he shoving his fingers through his short hair and looked around the empty room.

"Son of a bitch!" he breathed, unable to prevent the cough that punctuated his curse.

_What the hell had just happened?_

Someone or something had been in the office with them and whatever the hell it was had somehow managed to drown the man at his own damned desk. Dean dragged a hand down his face, and looked at the desk, the piles of files around the office, the computer screen—and stopped.

The letter on the screen wasn't the one he'd had up. It was from Josephine Sanderson and addressed to Judge McAvoy. Dean's eyes burned as he read the single paragraph.

_I understand your position and I want you to know I appreciate all you've done for my father over the years. It's hard to see your home die. My father hasn't accepted the decision of the town he loved so much, but I hope your assistance in moving him to the lake cabin will work to ease his transition. It will just take some time, and I implore you once again to reach out to your friends and ask them to delay the demolition._

"Dammit, that's it," Dean whispered. "Cooper called the cabin the old Sanderson place."

He straightened, looking down at Tolliver's body.

"That's why the name caught me," he said to the dead man. "Wallace is Josephine's father. Has to be."

He heard voices below, echoing down the hall; Tolliver must have left the door open to the stairs leading up to his office. Dean had to move fast; the last thing he needed was to be found with a dead body. Especially one that had died like _this_. He went to the bank of windows, moving down the line until he found one with the latch unpainted. As he lifted the window, he heard the voices growing louder as they drew closer to the office door.

Slipping outside to the narrow, sloping roof, Dean shoved the window back down and pressed his body against the side of the building. He could see down to the street, see the people spilling back to the town from the memorial service, heads bent close as they talked. He could see the cluster of flannel-clad men move away from their alcove and head down a side alley toward a parking lot.

And he could see Sam heading his way.

Tugging his hood back up to cover his face, Dean slid carefully along the roof to the opposite side of the building. The moment he was in the shadow of the building, he heard the unmistakable scream of discovery as someone entered Tolliver's office. Swallowing and willing himself not to cough, he lowered himself shakily to his knees, crawling the few feet to the edge of the roof, and grabbing the gutter with stiff, cold fingers.

"I'm getting too old for this shit," he muttered, then swung down from the roof, hanging from the gutter for a moment before dropping to the paved alley, the impact sending shock-waves through his aching body and toppling him to the side.

Grunting, he pushed upright looking around to make sure he wasn't seen, then limped on bruised ankles toward the place he'd seen Sam.

www

Sam burrowed deeper into his coats, trying to ignore his aching head.

It had been too cold to stand among a crowd of strangers and listen as a man gave lip service to the memory of a woman he didn't even know. Sheriff Mead had spoken with scripted eloquence about how temporary life was, dubbed the lake _Josephine's Refuge_, and spoke of New Lethe's generous spirit.

Mead had ended the ceremony with a flourish of ashes being dumped into a hole in the ice of the lake cut specifically for this occasion. Sam felt certain he sprained something as he'd rolled his eyes.

There was no mention of Mayor Jones, and the moment the ceremony was over, Mead had been whisked off the stage by the men who'd stood behind him, glowering at the crowd the entire time.

Unable to find the Sheriff or Cooper, Sam had followed the crowd back to town, intent on locating Dean and hoping he'd had more success. His thoughts were focused inward, trying to weave their way through the maze in his mind constructed by the unanswered questions. He didn't notice them men approaching him until it was too late.

"You're like a cockroach," came a thick voice to his left. "Ain't ya?"

Sam stopped, looking up and around. He saw immediately that he'd wandered off the main road to one of the back lots Cooper had said were reserved for parking. Except this lot was empty of cars. The only thing here were three very large men, one of whom Sam recognized as Paul Bunyan from the diner the day before.

His eye throbbed immediately.

"Really?" Sam replied, weariness erasing fear. "You really think bullying me is the best choice here?"

The men approached, Paul Bunyan—Marshall, Cooper had said—cracking his knuckles. Sam tilted his head, wondering how Colin had truly managed to scare them off before.

"You gave us the slip yesterday," Marshall continued. "Never got to give you our message."

Sam touched his bruised eye. "I think you got your point across."

"If I had," Marshall said, circling Sam like an alpha wolf, "you wouldn't still be here."

"Dude, I don't know what your deal is," Sam said, standing absolutely still and working to keep all three in his sight. "But the only reason I'm here is because my car is stuck in the snow outside of your town."

"Why were you at the memorial, then?" asked one of the other men.

"Waiting for Cooper," Sam told him.

"Well, he ain't here," Marshall pointed out. "And you are."

"What is your _problem, _man?" Sam glared at him.

"My problem is you freaks coming in here with your ghost theories and screwing with the lives of good people," Marshall returned, stepping close to Sam and causing him to look up slightly.

"_What_? What are you _talking_ about?"

"I saw you at the _CoffeeHaus_," Marshall said. "I know you're with them reporters. You're probably spying on us so you could tell your ghost hunter friends which house to hit next."

"You've got this all wrong," Sam shook his head.

"Do I?" Marshall growled, his breath reeking of cigarettes and old meat.

Sam swallowed and turned his face away. His irritation at the ridiculousness of this situation overpowered any real fear he probably should be feeling.

"My Mama had to board up a broken window after you freaks tried to break in and check for the Lake Woman's Ghost or whatever the hell," Marshall continued. He jerked his thumb toward one of his friends. "His daughter saw a group of you in the library plotting about whose house was going to be next."

"Mister, I don't know what you're talking about." Sam set his jaw, looking Marshall directly in the eye. "Now get out of my way."

"How about you head out of town the same way you came in," Marshall said, stepping close enough that his generous chest pressed against Sam's.

"How about you go to Hell and take a left," Sam returned, body tense as he sensed one of the other men drawing close.

He jutted his elbow out, catching the man on the jaw, then turned and shoved his fist into the man's throat. As the man choked and backed up, Marshall drove a punch into Sam's kidneys, sending him to his knees with a cry of pain.

Marshall pressed his advantage, slamming his fist across Sam's face hard enough that Sam felt his teeth rattle and immediately tasted blood. He shoved back, pushing to a staggered stance and raised his fists, wondering fleetingly if the people leaving the memorial would hear this commotion.

The men approached as one; Sam swung with ferocity, but fighting in real life is never like fighting in the movies. There was no waiting until one was done for another to attack. There was no space to put force behind a blow. It was a tangled jumble of limbs and grunts, shooting pains traveling up his arm whenever his knuckles made contact with one of his attackers, and blurred images moving too closely and too swiftly for him to focus.

He was losing ground.

In minutes he found himself caught, suspended between two men, his arms immobilized as Marshall stood in front of him, lip bleeding, eye starting to swell. Sam allowed himself a sluggish grin as he saw that he had, indeed, damaged the larger man.

"Okay, that's it, you little shit," Marshall wheezed. "I was all for giving you a chance, but now you're gonna pay."

"Shut the hell up already," Sam panted, struggling in the grip of Marshall's friends.

Uttering a guttural growl, Marshall pulled his fist back. Sam tightened his belly, anticipating the blow.

"Let him go."

Sam almost sagged with relief.

Marshall's face folded in confusion as he turned slowly to face whoever was interrupting him. Sam could see Dean standing a few feet behind Marshall. The dark hood was up, shadowing his face, and the layers of coats gave the illusion that he was bigger than Sam knew he was.

"What's it to you?" Marshall wanted to know.

"He's my brother." Dean took a step forward, his shoulders rolling.

Even Sam had to admit he looked rather dangerous.

"In that case, wait your turn," Marshall said. "I'll get to you next."

Dean tipped his head. "'Fraid that's not going to work for me."

Sam blinked, feeling his captors go still as they watched Dean lift his arms lightning-quick and clap his hands against Marshall's ears with enough force that Sam flinched with the sound. Marshall teetered, but Dean didn't pause. He thrust his right fist forward, crashing it against Marshall's throat.

Marshall gagged and reached for his throat just as Dean shoved his left fist into the big man's gut. Marshall went to his knees and Dean brought his own knee up, clocking the man on the chin and stunning him. Rearing back, Dean slammed the flat of his arm across Marshall's cheek, sending the man to the ground, unmoving.

Gasping for breath from the effort, Dean looked up at the two men still holding Sam. His face in shadow, Sam saw his brother mask his shaking hands by reaching for the knife he kept sheathed at the small of his back.

Pulling out the big blade, he said again, "Let him go."

Sam almost fell on his rear as the men released him.

"Get the hell out of here," Dean ordered.

The two men turned without a word and Sam heard their boots hitting the pavement in retreat. When they were far enough away, Dean slipped the knife back into its sheath.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice wavering with weariness.

Sam nodded hesitantly, taking a shaky step forward on watery legs. "You?"

Before he could answer, Dean began to cough, bending forward and holding his knees with the force of it.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Sam looked around his brother to see Cooper standing with the man he now recognized as Sheriff Mead. The Sheriff had his gun drawn and Cooper was looking at them with a troubled, almost frightened expression.

"Welcoming party," Sam said, moving closer to Dean and resting a hand lightly on his brother's bent back. "Gone wrong."

"What's wrong with Marshall?" Mead asked.

"He's an idiot," Dean rasped, straightening up. "It might be incurable."

Sam dropped his hand from Dean's back but stood close enough that he could feel the subtle tremor run through his brother's body.

Cooper reached over and put a hand on Mead's gun. "Put that away, Matthew," he said quietly. "These aren't our guys."

"Your guys?" Sam asked, pressing his tongue against the cut on his lower lip.

Mead peered at them, his eyes searching the shadow of Dean's hood for a better look. "William Tolliver is dead," he informed them. "Happened during the memorial."

Sam went still and felt Dean's muscles tighten as he curled his hands into fists.

"Where were you during the memorial?" Mead asked.

"We were there," Sam answered quickly. Cooper and Dean remained quiet. "Heard every word you said. Thought the bit about New Lethe's generous spirit was especially touching." Sam pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping some of the blood away. "'Course, now I'm having trouble believing you."

"You boys okay?" Cooper said as Marshall groaned and started to roll over.

"We're fi-," Dean tried, but began to cough again.

"Matthew," Cooper said, "I think you have sufficient grounds to take Marshall into custody. I'm going to get these two back to my office."

"What about Tolliver?" Mead asked, frowning and not taking his eyes off of the brothers. "We need you to get on this, Coop."

"I will," Cooper said. "Have your men take him to the morgue. I'll meet you there."

Sam pulled Dean away as Sheriff Mead cuffed Marshall and pulled the disoriented man to his feet.

"You might need to check him out, too," Mead commented, shaking his head at Marshall's bruised countenance.

"He can wait," Cooper declared.

Sam watched Mead haul Marshall away, then looked at the M.E. "What is it?"

"Tolliver drowned," Dean said before Cooper had a chance to speak. "In his office. At his desk."

"What?" Sam looked over at his brother, surprised.

"How did you know that?" Cooper asked, frowning.

"I saw it happen," Dean informed them. He looked at Sam. "It gets worse."

Sam sighed. "It usually does."

www

It was cold in the Cooper's office.

Dean was starting to think that it was cold all over the world. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really felt warm. He'd given in to Cooper's insistence on examining him when he'd not been able to draw a breath without wincing as they walked from the parking lot to the office.

He sat on the exam table, his coat, borrowed hoodie, and flannel shirt hanging on a hook on the wall, his boots beneath them on the floor. He was dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and thick socks but he was still shivering. Pressing a hand to his aching chest he cleared his throat.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Ask me that again. Seriously. I dare you."

Sam lifted his hands in surrender and slouched on the edge of Cooper's desk where he'd been perched since the M.E. had left to get supplies.

"Sorry, jeeze," Sam muttered. "You just don't look so hot."

"That's because it's freezing in here."

"No it's not," Sam protested, pushing the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt up.

"Oh, shut up," Dean grumbled. "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam retorted with an abbreviated grin, wincing as his split lip protested.

Dean rolled his neck, closing his eyes so that he didn't have to see Sam's damaged face. There was no reason for Sam to be bearing those bruises. Dean should have been there. Or Sam should have been with him. _Stay together, stay alive_. He needed to step up his game if they were going to get out of this intact.

"So, Josephine is Colin's sister." Sam interrupted his thoughts, evidently still piecing together the information Dean had shared with him.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, looks that way."

"Doesn't make any sense," Sam said, looking at his hands.

"Why?"

Sam shrugged. "He never mentioned her. He talked about his dad and once or twice mentioned his family getting run out of town, but…well, I mean we even talked about the body and he never said anything."

"You said he was pretty messed up," Dean offered. "Maybe he just…y'know…couldn't."

"Maybe," Sam sounded doubtful.

Dean peered at his brother closely. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Sam looked away and Dean saw a muscle in his jaw coil. "I just…I shoulda seen it. I could tell something was off about him, but…."

"Give yourself a break, Sam," Dean said gently. "He's a soldier without a war who has to take care of someone who depends on him, and is doing it all by himself because everyone he knows looks at him like a freak." He turned his head to catch Sam's eyes. "Remind you of anyone?"

"Colin is nothing like Dad," Sam protested.

"All I'm saying is…sometimes we get so used to seeing _our kind_ of weird that we miss _normal_ weird. Y'know?"

Sam chuckled, looking down. "Strangely enough, that makes a lot of sense."

Dean heard Cooper moving their direction down the hall, a one-sided conversation catching their attention.

"Okay," Cooper was saying as he entered the room, a cell phone pinned to his shoulder with the side of his head, his arms full of boxes, vials, and tools that Dean didn't recognize. "Okay, got it. Thanks, Matthew."

Cooper dumped his armload onto the desk next to Sam, then dropped his phone from his shoulder to his hand, shutting it off and putting it in his pocket.

"What was that about?" Sam asked.

Cooper straightened and took a breath. "I told Matthew."

"Told him…what?" Dean asked.

"I told him that the two deaths were connected," Cooper said, putting his supplies in small stacks as he spoke. "That even though I haven't done a full autopsy, it appears that William Tolliver drowned in much the same manner that Mayor Jones did. And that I believed those deaths were related to the body of Josephine Sanderson."

"And he believed you?" Sam pressed.

Cooper looked at him. "He did. Because I didn't cry ghost."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, in that case…."

"So what are you doing about it?" Sam demanded.

"I told him that I thought someone was looking for something where Josephine's body had been found."

Sam cocked his head. "Wait…so…you believe us?"

"I'm not saying that," Cooper picked gestured for Sam's bruised hand. "I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt to take a look and see what we might be able to find."

"Also wouldn't hurt to go back to Colin's," Dean said quietly. "See if there's anything of his sister's there."

"I didn't see anything," Sam said. "But, I suppose there could be—ouch!"

"Sorry," Cooper said as he dabbed antiseptic over the roughed-up skin on Sam's knuckles. "Who is this now?"

"The guy that saved Sam's ass yesterday," Dean said. "And then shot me."

"What? Shot you?" Cooper turned away from Sam.

"Just a flesh wound," Dean waved a hand at his worried face. "Believe me. I've had worse."

Dean caught Sam's glance but looked away. He felt his body ticking down, but knew he had to hang on awhile longer; they were close on this. Really, really close.

"And this guy," Cooper said, cleaning the cut on Sam's mouth. "You say he knew Josephine?"

"He's her brother," Dean said. "I found Sam out at his place last night."

Cooper dabbed some salve on Sam's lip then inspected his bruised eye and butterfly-bandaged cut. "I thought you said you never made it to town."

Dean coughed into the crook of his arm, feeling something pulling in his chest, tearing across his throat. Sliding from the exam table, he made his way to the waste basket next to Cooper's desk and spat into it, ignoring the pink tinge of the mucus there.

"We didn't," he said, watching as Cooper cleaned and re-bandaged Sam's cut. "We were out at the old Sanderson place."

Cooper turned from Sam, looping a stethoscope around his neck. "Wait, you're not talking about Colin Sanderson," Cooper said.

Dean jutted his jaw forward, his eyebrows up. "Uh…yes."

He shot Sam a look watching as his brother lifted his shoulders, equally as clueless.

Waving Dean back toward the exam table, Cooper shook his head. "Sorry, I'm just…I thought Colin never came back from Iraq is all. I didn't realize he'd been living out there this whole time."

"Yeah, well," Sam said as Dean settled on the exam table. "He said they weren't really town favorites. Especially after his Dad's stroke."

"Take off your shirt," Cooper instructed Dean, narrowing his eyes.

Dean bit off a groan as he reached back between his shoulders and grabbed the cotton material. He pulled it up and over his head, suppressing a shiver as the cooler air hit his skin. The bullet tear in the coat hadn't bothered him with the hoodie on, but it snagged on his bandage as he pulled the clothing all the way off.

"Let's see that wound, first of all," Cooper said, gently removing the bandage Sam had placed over the grooved skin the night before.

The brothers were quiet, each lost in their own collection of thoughts. Dean saw Sam watching Cooper's movements and wanted to reassure him that everything was going to be okay, but it was hard enough to pull in a deep breath as it was.

"Doesn't look too bad," Cooper said.

Dean saw him go for the antiseptic and pulled his belly tight in anticipation. The sting was deep and immediate, but then Cooper followed it with the same salve he'd put on Sam's lip and the ache eased considerably. Cooper covered the wound with a clean bandage, then moved to face Dean.

"Quite a collection of scars," he commented, his eyes on Dean's chest.

"Not an easy life," Dean said, straightening as Cooper pressed the cold face of the stethoscope against his back.

"This bruising," Cooper's cool fingers touched lightly on Dean's side marking evidence of his fight with the shapeshifter just days ago. "Was this a result of your fall through the ice?"

Dean shook his head. "Got that before we stopped off in your little hamlet here."

"So this is all you two do? Drive around the country ghost busting?"

"Believe me, it's not as glamorous as you make it sound," Sam remarked dryly.

Dean almost grinned.

"Take a deep breath," Cooper ordered.

Dean tried, but ended up coughing. Cooper waited until he was done and then pressed the stethoscope against his back again.

"You have any pain in your chest?"

"A little," Dean hedged.

"You back?"

Dean nodded.

Cooper took Dean's face in his hands and turned it first one direction then the other. Using the pads of his thumbs, he pulled Dean's eyelids up and peered closely, then released him.

"How long have you been running a fever?" Cooper asked.

Dean saw Sam's head jerk up.

"Not long," he lied.

"So, let me ask you this," Cooper stepped back, crossing his arms. "Does this job of yours afford you special…powers?"

"What?" Sam exclaimed. "No!"

"He's yankin' our chain, man," Dean replied tiredly.

"Yes," Cooper nodded. "Yes, I am." He tilted his head, pushing his lips out in what was quickly becoming a familiar expression. "The human body can only take so much abuse. You've got multiple contusions, a decent graze from a bullet, and you're working on pneumonia." When Dean didn't react, Cooper tried again. "You've got fluid building up in your lungs. Your chest is rattling like Marley's ghost."

Dean simply looked at him.

"Why didn't you get help sooner?" Cooper asked.

"Didn't want to cause any trouble," Dean replied.

"Oh, well," Cooper lifted his hands. "Dodged _that_ bullet."

"Hey, listen," Sam protested, stepping forward.

"No, Sam, wait," Dean held up a hand, still looking at Cooper. "Let the man speak. I mean, after all…he's dealing with two _whackos_ who have no idea what they're talking about while people in his town drop like flies." Dean tilted his head and pushed out his lips in an obvious imitation of Cooper. "That's a lot to take in."

Sam settled back against the desk and waited. Dean coughed weakly into his shoulder. Cooper stared at the floor.

"I told Sheriff Mead to search in the spot the boys found the body," Cooper said finally. "Search everything—there are houses and buildings still completely intact underwater."

The brothers waited quietly.

"I told him to bring up anything that looked like it could be a personal artifact. He has a two-man team of divers in his unit—they have specialized equipment to search the lake for…well…bodies."

"So, what are you saying, Coop?" Dean asked, drawing on the nickname he'd heard others in the town use.

Cooper looked up at him. "I'm saying…you just might…be right."

"We _are_ right," Dean declared.

"But you're also _human_," Cooper said, pushing away from the exam table and crossing to the desk full of supplies. "And you're sick." He poured cough syrup into a small medicine cup and handed it to Dean, then turned back to his desk. "So, while the Sheriff searches the lake and I autopsy Tolliver, I want both of you to rest." He grabbed a vial and a syringe and turned back to Dean. "I want to give you a shot of penicillin. Are you allergic?"

Dean shook his head.

"It's not the strongest antibiotic, but it'll help you fight this off as long as you stay warm and rest," Cooper approached, filling the syringe as he walked. "I'll have Mandy fix you some food later up at the diner. You can take the couches in the waiting room. No one will bother you."

"Hey, Cooper," Sam asked as Cooper slid the needle beneath Dean's skin. "What did that diner used to be called?"

"What do you mean?" Cooper asked, handing Dean back his shirts.

"I thought I saw a name on the side—some faded letters."

"Oh," Cooper grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from his stash and tossed it to Dean. "Take a few of these after you eat. Keep that fever down. I'm going to write you up a prescription to take with you when we get your car out." He turned to Sam. "A long time ago it was _Sanderson Bar & Grill_. But that was well before 9/11—before Colin Sanderson left for Iraq."

"So, this family…they used to be pretty prominent in this town, huh?" Sam mused, following Dean and Cooper as they made their way to the waiting room.

"How do you mean?" Cooper asked, opening a closet in the hall and grabbing two blankets.

"Well, I mean, they had a restaurant and Wallace was the Sheriff before Mead…," Sam shrugged taking a blanket from Cooper and dropping heavily onto the couch. "Just seems sad that people left them behind. Forgot about them."

Cooper looked over at Sam, something unreadable crossing his face. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it is."

Dean lay back on the couch, feeling his body groan as he removed the burden of carrying his own weight. He flipped the blanket over his legs and sighed as Cooper left the room.

"You gonna be okay, Sammy?"

"First time I've taken an afternoon nap in years," Sam yawned in reply.

"I think the fact that you've gone, like, forty-eight hours without sleep gets you off the hook."

"Oh, good," Sam muttered drowsily. "'Cause I was worried."

"Don't do anything without me," Dean said on a whisper, finding sleep waiting for him on the other side of his exhale.

www

It took him a moment to realize the sound he was hearing wasn't captured in the layer of his own dreams.

It was half-way between a snarl and a whimper and Sam couldn't seem to shake it off or shake it loose. Prying his eyes open took an inhuman effort of will. His entire body felt encased in lead, drifting, moments away from rolling back into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

But in the dying light of day that spilled through the narrow window at the top of the room, Sam saw his brother on the adjacent couch. Dean was tangled in his blanket, his legs kicked free, his arms trapped. Sweat glistened on his face, tenting his lashes and soaking his short hair. His lips were parted and even in this light Sam saw a bluish tinge to them.

And the sound was coming from him.

Pushing himself free of blankets and sleep at the same time, Sam stumbled across the short space between them to hit his knees by the side of the couch. He grabbed his brother's arm, holding him and shaking him awake at the same time.

"Hey! Hey, man," Sam said softly. "Dean, hey! Wake up."

Dean came to with a start, jerking away from Sam's grip and staring at him with wide, unseeing eyes.

"Easy, it's okay," Sam reassured him. "Just a dream."

Dean fought the blankets to get his arms free then dragged a hand down his sweaty face. "Son of a….," he muttered, dropping his head back, "bitch."

"Bad one?"

"I was, uh…," Dean swallowed, blinking to focus his eyes. "Trapped in net. Underwater."

Sam tugged the rest of the blanket free from Dean's body. "Creepy," he commented.

Dean took a breath, but didn't cough. However, this close, Sam heard the rattle Cooper had mentioned. It didn't sound good. Swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, Dean sat up slowly. Sam dropped down next to him.

"How long were we asleep?" Dean asked, rubbing the top of his head.

Sam looked at his watch. "Few hours. Think Mead's found anything?"

Dean cleared his throat and reached for his boots. "Let's go find out."

"You need some more aspirin or anything?"

Shaking his head, Dean pushed to his feet, wavering for a moment before catching his balance. "I think that shot he gave me is helping. Chest doesn't hurt as bad."

Sam rubbed at his temples. His head hadn't really quit aching since they'd driven off the road the night before last. It wasn't as bad right now, and it hadn't been long enough since he'd taken ibuprofen to take more. He put a few in his pocket for later.

"What about your fever?"

"It's fine," Dean said, grabbing his coat and hoodie and draping them over his arm. "C'mon."

_It's fine, _Sam mocked silently. _We build our lives on lies and still manage to be surprised when we face the truth_.

He watched his brother carefully as they walked down the hall toward the morgue, determined to catch the first sign of Dean giving in. He knew his brother wouldn't hesitate to stop if it were Sam who was sick. Or in danger of getting hurt.

But he also knew that Dean could feel how close they were to getting to the bottom of this hunt. It was stenciled on his face in dark, bold font. And he wouldn't quit. To Sam's frustration, Dean's keen hunter sense was often times wrapped in reckless abandon and his own well-being became simply collateral damage.

"Cooper!" Dean called at the top of the stairs leading down to the morgue. "You decent?"

"Come on down," Cooper called. "Beware…it's not PG-13 down here, boys."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, his boots hitting the tiled staircase like exclamation points.

Sam followed, noticing the large elevator doors at the base of the stairs. He wondered how they got the bodies down here through such a small door. He turned at the bottom of the stairs in time to pull in a formaldehyde-laden breath and look away. William Tolliver was lying, naked, on a metal table, his chest cavity open, the skin folded back. On a tray next to him lay the front of his ribcage and what appeared to be his heart, lungs, and stomach in separate metal bowls.

"Thought you would have rested longer," Cooper commented. A blue smock covered his street clothes and his hair was covered by a paper skull cap.

"Bad dreams," Dean shrugged. "Occupational hazard."

"Yes, I'd imagine," Cooper said, turning back to Tolliver.

"Uh, find out…anything?" Sam asked, trying not to look directly at the body.

"Well, if he hadn't drowned on lake water while high and dry in his office," Cooper said, "our friend Mr. Tolliver would have probably died of a heart attack in a few years' time."

"Anything helpful?" Dean amended.

"Nothing," Cooper shook his head. "Everything here is exactly the same as when I autopsied Mayor Jones. Even these."

Cooper lifted Tolliver's hand and showed them three round, mottled marks on his wrist.

"What is that?" Dean asked, peering closely. "Looks like…bruises?"

"Yes, exactly," Cooper nodded. "Finger marks, actually. Like he'd been held down. Which is one reason your spirit theory about Jones seemed so unlikely."

"Why do you believe us now?" Sam asked as a cell phone rang.

Cooper pulled his latex gloves from his fingers, turning to find his coat and pat the pockets until he pulled out his phone. "Maybe because you two are so convincing," he said, flipping the phone open. "Yes?"

The brothers stood quietly and waited as Cooper listened to whoever was speaking on the other end of the line.

"I'll be there in ten," Cooper said, then closed his phone. He moved over to Tolliver and began pulling up a heavy-duty sheet over the body.

"Be where?" Dean asked.

"That was Sheriff Mead," Cooper told them. "Said his divers found something, but he needs me on site to take a look."

"We're coming with you," Dean declared.

"Son," Cooper said, turning to face them and pulling his smock over his head. "_On site_. As in the lake."

"Right," Dean replied, cocking his head to the side as if waiting for the punch line.

"I'm not letting you anywhere _near_ that lake," Cooper shook his head. "Not with those lungs. You stay here. I'll call you when I get there."

He started toward the stairs and Dean stepped smoothly in front of him.

"All due respect," Dean said softly, "but you have no idea what you're dealing with. We do."

Cooper looked at Sam for help. Sam stepped up behind Dean. There was no way he wasn't going to back his brother's play in this. Not after all they'd been through to get this far.

Recognizing his defeat, Cooper sighed. "Fine. But you stay on the shore."

"Fine," Dean agreed.

The drive to the lake was quiet. Night had captured the town, darkness eagerly spreading between the trees that surrounded New Lethe and stretching its greedy fingers through the woods as they drove.

Sam felt the tension in the air, but not between the three of them. There was a sense of foreboding in the cab of the truck, a dread that something was going to come to the surface of this town's white-washed history that would leave them all marked by its truth.

Mandy had been right: everyone was going to pay a price.

"We're not too far from Colin's place," Dean spoke up as Cooper pulled off the road and bounced the truck through the snow covered landscape, narrowly missing the various cluster of trees. "Depending on what Mead has, maybe we go talk to him next."

"Good idea," Sam agreed, bracing himself against the dash and floorboards. He wasn't ready to bounce his still-fragile head on against anything else for a good while.

They drove onto a narrow outcropping of beach where Sam saw several uniformed men with high-powered flashlights gathered. A small speedboat had been pulled up on the sand and the group of men was staring out across the lake, their lights marking a path cut through the ice. A portable spot light was positioned at the high edge of the beach and was focused down that path, softly illuminating a sight Sam would be happy never to see again.

Protruding from the ice was the tip of a church steeple, the gold cross gleaming dully in the spotlight. The tops of two buildings could be seen further down, near a boat moored in the ice of the lake. _They looked like bodies_, he thought. _Wooden bodies floating up from the clutches of the lake_.

"Dean," Sam said in a low warning. "Lots of cops."

"I noticed," Dean muttered.

Sam watched him pull his hood up and hoped it, the darkness, and the focus on the lake would keep the cops from getting a good look at his brother. _Maybe Hendrickson hasn't even gotten up this far_. _He could have turned south, be looking in Canada or Mexico. There's no reason to—_

"You guys got a problem with cops?" Cooper asked.

"No," Dean shook his head. "No problem."

Cooper looked at Sam who nodded in agreement.

"Any of them got a problem with you?" Cooper asked slowly.

Sam smiled. "No reason any cop in New Lethe should even know who we are," he said confidently.

Narrowing his eyes in doubt, Cooper climbed out of the truck. Sam exchanged a worried glance with Dean, noting that he could barely see his brother's eyes in the shadow of the hood. They followed Cooper into the chill of the night; Sam buried his gloved hands deeper into his pockets wishing for the ski mask as the wind took a bite out of his cheeks.

"Whatcha got, Matthew?" Cooper called as he made his way to the cluster of men.

Staying close to each other, the brothers followed. Sheriff Mead and several other officers were standing near what looked like a portable monitor. Peering closer, Sam saw that the image captured was a night vision shot, most likely from a camera mounted on one of the diver's masks. As he watched, one of the officers flipped a switch and the image shifted to that of a boat.

Sam lifted his eyes and saw that the flashlights were trained down the path cut in the ice, toward where the boat must be. It was too dark for him to actually see the boat that was displayed on the monitor.

"Divers found the house about an hour ago," Sheriff Mead said, turning his flashlight toward Cooper. "Started searching room by room, just like you said. They found it just before I called you."

"Found…what?"

"Another body," Mead replied.

Sam started in quiet surprise, but Dean didn't move.

"_Another_…." Cooper gasped.

"Bones, mainly. Just like with the woman. It's in an upper room of the house, but there's a lot of damage to the building. It's going to take a bit to get it free."

"Oh, Jesus, Matthew." Cooper rubbed his face. "What _happened_ here?"

"We rushed it, Coop," Mead said softly, his voice both defensive and filled with regret. "We didn't know."

Sam looked at Dean, noting the complete focus his brother had on Sheriff Mead.

"Didn't know what?"

"Sheriff!" A voice called out from the group of men around the monitor. "Think you should see this."

Dean pressed forward, following Mead and Cooper toward the monitor. Taller than his brother, Sam had no trouble rising on his toes to see over Dean's shoulder. The screen showed the top of the boat, wavering a bit as the men inside leaned over to reach for something handed up by the divers.

Sam blinked, focusing as the image caught a man's hand retrieving something from the diver's gloved grip.

"What…what is that?" Cooper asked, peering closer.

"Dog tags," Dean whispered, looking back over his shoulder at Sam.

Sam saw it then. Gripped in the man's dripping hand was a set of dog tags, greenish lake weed tangled in the chain.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed. "We missed it. We _missed _it."

"Dog tags?" Cooper whispered, looking back at Dean, confused.

Sam stared at the dog tags for a moment longer, shock sliding through his system. "Wait, you mean…Colin?"

He looked up at Cooper and watched as the realization hit the M.E. "Oh, Lord," Cooper uttered as if in prayer.

"Oh, shit, Sam!" Dean turned, grabbing his shoulders, his voice urgent. "Wallace. Wallace is back there with him."

Before Sam could grab him back, Dean was moving away, up the beach, past the truck.

"Wait! Dean! Wait!" Sam started after him, pulled up short when Cooper grabbed his arm. He turned, tugging himself free, and noticed that the eyes of every cop were on him.

"Where is he going?" Mead demanded.

Sam looked from Mead to Cooper, floundering for a way to explain without explaining, needing to catch up with Dean _now_.

"The cabin?" Cooper asked, grabbing Sam's arm again.

Sam nodded, staring to turn away.

"Wallace is there?" Cooper pressed.

"Yes!" Sam snapped. "Dean's going to get Wallace out of there until you can pull Colin's bones up. We gotta burn them if you want this to stop."

"Wallace Sanderson?" Mead asked, turning his flashlight full onto Sam's face. "The former sheriff?"

"_Yes_, goddammit!" Sam trying to pull his arm free from Cooper's surprisingly strong grip.

"No." Mead dropped the beam of light to the beach, turning away. "This isn't possible. It's just _not possible_."

"What, Matthew? What did you do?" Cooper turned to the Sheriff.

"Listen," Sam snapped. "Work out your issues later, okay?" He looked directly at Cooper, narrowing his eyes against the harsh glare from so many flashlights trained on him. "My brother is going to catch your killer. Now either help me or let me go! He can't do this on his own—not sick like this."

Cooper released Sam's arm.

"Tell us what to do."

* * *

**a/n: **Thanks so much for reading! You guys make this all worthwhile. I'm still working to keep this as close to an every-two-weeks update as I can. More to come soon—I look forward to your thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Chapter 1.

**a/n: **Thanks for coming back! And thank you so much your reviews and comments—if I haven't replied to yours, I will be doing so very soon. Promise. I have had some time-crunches in RL lately and focused on getting this chapter out before replying, but I want you to know that your time is a gift to me. I'm really pleased you've enjoyed the roll-out of this particular ghost story.

I hope you're entertained by this next chapter; I've been looking forward to writing it. Neither of our boys get out of this mess unscathed. There will be scathing. Oh, yes. There will be scathing. *grins*

Thanks go to **thruterryseyes** for giving me a much-needed sanity check on this (and every) chapter. She reads for impact and I can't tell you how much of one she makes on me. Thanks, T.

* * *

_Cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good,  
Now, cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good,  
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move._

_~When the Levee Breaks_ by Led Zeppelin

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Dean ran.

Cold, silver moonlight cut through the canopy of branches like a blade, creating a strobe-like effect of black and white as he tore across the snowy ground between the trees.

He could feel his heartbeat at the base of his throat. It tangled on the air hammering upward from his weakened lungs and forced him to stop his head-long rush from the water's edge toward where he remembered the cabin to be. Small clouds of condensed air puffed out before him, crystallizing almost instantly in the frigid night.

Thrusting out a hand to brace himself against a tree, the other hand on his knee, Dean doubled over, coughing roughly. He spat, staining the snow red.

Clearing his throat, he looked up and around, suddenly realizing he was alone.

"Sam?" He called, his voice echoing, rusty and used, in the snow hush of the woods.

His brother hadn't followed him.

For a moment Dean simply stared behind him, his surprise too great to click through logic. There hadn't been many times in their lives where Sam hadn't followed him, no matter what it was he was heading into. There had been plenty of times when Sam had _left_ him. But he usually always followed.

Closing his eyes, Dean sagged against the tree, shifting until his spine was aligned with the bark. He slowed his breathing, trying to calm the trigger to cough, aggravated from his run through the cold night.

He dropped his chin to his chest, feeling the pull of aching muscles along his neck, and replayed the last few minutes in his mind. The moment he'd seen the dog tags, the image of Wallace's helpless form, lying on the bed in the attic room, flashed across his vision.

The old man had been helpless, trapped in the dying cabin with the ghost of his son, all these years. And Dean had left him there. He'd _missed_ it.

The memory of Ronald's face caught in the beam of the searching spotlight seconds before the sniper's bullet cut him down floated over Wallace's staring eyes and gaping mouth in Dean's memory. He couldn't let another innocent die because he hadn't been quick enough; because he hadn't seen every angle, every possibility.

He needed to be one step ahead. He needed to save this one.

"Wait…," Dean muttered to himself, dragging his gloved hand down his sweaty face. His breath puffed out in a cloud in front of him. "Wait…it's been like _four years_…."

_So why did Colin start killing now?_

Josephine. Dean knew the discovery of her body had to have been the catalyst. But who had been watching over Wallace all this time?

"Something hinky's going on here," Dean said to the darkness, rolling his shoulder along the tree and peering in the direction of the cabin. He glanced back over his shoulder.

Sam wasn't coming.

Taking a shallow breath, Dean looked down at the snow, ignoring the pink splash. He knew his brother wouldn't have just _not_ followed. Something had to have happened with the cops on the beach. In which case, Dean going back now could only make things worse.

Squaring his shoulders, Dean pushed himself away from the tree and started toward the cabin at a slower, more controlled pace. There was nothing for it. He needed to get the old man out of there, _then_ figure out a way to get Sam away from the cops. They were going to have to bring up Colin's bones from the lake before they could stop his spirit anyway.

"One thing at a time," he said to himself, working to keep his breathing controlled, pressing a hand against his aching chest. "One thing at a time."

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"You need to bring up the bones," Sam said in immediate response to Cooper's inquiry as to what they could do. "Just…," he darted his eyes past Cooper to where Mead and his men were watching their exchange. "Just bring them up and take them to your morgue."

"What about your brother?" Cooper asked, holding a hand out as Mead stepped forward, mouth opened to speak. The sheriff stopped in deference to Cooper's raised hand, which surprised Sam.

"I'll go after Dean," Sam said, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. His cheeks were stiff with cold and his nose was beginning to run.

"You said he was going to catch our killer," Mead reminded him. "You think I'm letting some kid go after this guy alone, you're crazy." Mead flattened his lips, his whistle cutting through the night. "Johnson! I want you to head up to the old Sanderson place. Check it out."

A man whose face Sam couldn't see nodded then headed up the hill. In moments, Sam heard the diesel engine of a hefty pick-up truck roar to life and saw headlights bouncing through the trees. He started once more to turn from Cooper and swore under his breath when the M.E. caught his arm again.

"What about me?" Cooper asked.

Sam turned back. "You really want to help us?"

Cooper pulled his wiry eyebrows together, his eyes appearing almost angry as he answered. "I'm not standing out here for my health, kid. I want to stop this just as much as you."

Thinking quickly, Sam said, "We'll need to get the bones dry enough to burn. You got something at the morgue that can help with that?"

"Burn?" Mead barked. "What the hell is this?"

Cooper arched a brow, ignoring the sheriff. "We can't just put them in the incinerator?"

"Oh." Sam blinked. "Yeah, of course."

"I'll head back," Cooper said. "Get it ready. I'll drop you near the cabin on my way. You have Mead's man bring you and your brother there. With…," he glanced at Mead, pushing his lips out. "With Wallace Sanderson."

Sam saw Mead look away, training his flashlight on the lake. Whatever had happened between Wallace Sanderson and Matthew Mead distracted the sheriff from inquiring further about burning the bones.

"You alright with that, Matthew?" Cooper asked, tilting his head to peer at his friend.

"Sheriff!" Called one of the men peering at the monitor. "You're gonna want to see this!"

Cooper started to follow as Mead moved toward the monitor.

"Hey, I can't wait for you," Sam said. "I gotta go after Dean."

Cooper nodded. "What's your cell number?"

Sam told him.

"We'll call if anything causes us to veer from the plan, yeah?"

Sam nodded, glancing once over at the cluster of law men.

"Take this," Cooper ordered, grabbing the flashlight from the hand of the closest cop and handing it to Sam.

Sam accepted it gratefully, then took off down the beach, scrambling up the snow-covered hill and ran through the darkened forest, the silver light from the moon his only guide.

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Running through the snow was like running in sand. The harder Dean pushed, the slower he went until air was his enemy, cutting through his chest with scalpel-sharp knives. He was forced to walk—trudge, really—the last several minutes of his journey, weary even before he found the cabin.

It was a shadow against the dark. Had he not been looking for it, he could have run right past. As it was, the sight of the cabin pulled him up short, causing him to skid a bit on the snow. He stumbled and fell to his knees, coughing as he caught his breath.

There were no lights shining from within—just as he'd found it the night before, though Sam had been inside then. And a fire had been burning. For all Dean knew, Colin was throwing a party in there, cloaked by ghostly darkness. He frowned, studying the house. Sam told him that Colin saved him from Marshall and his friends; how had Colin managed to get Sam back to the house?

He immediately recalled abbreviated passages from his father's journal, trying to pinpoint the information he needed to make all of this make sense. His brain was sluggish, his memory betraying him, his focus shot by the pervasive cold as the night wind picked up speed, pressing cloying fingers against his exposed skin.

Doubts he normally didn't bother with swirled around him. His natural instinct to shoot first, ask questions later was failing him; it was hard to keep hold of his purpose, to center on what it was he was doing here, why he was fighting so hard. He shook his head roughly, needing to dispel the cobwebs of uncertainty. He narrowed his eyes, blocking out everything—every doubt, every question—but the sight before him.

Snow soaked through his jeans as he knelt staring at the dark cabin; shivers slipped along his skin. Licking his dry lips, Dean looked around, trying to remember where they'd left the duffle. He was at the West side of the cabin, facing the kitchen window. He remembered stepping out through the front door that morning and heading to the right when hiding the duffel—closer to the main road.

Pushing himself to his feet, he staggered around the side of the small building, looking for the cluster of trees. He blinked in surprise as a sliver of moonlight gleamed off of something metallic on the far side of the cabin. His eyes caught on the bed of a pick-up truck; he could barely make out the emblem of the Lethe Sheriff's Department painted on the side.

"What the hell?"

He hadn't heard a truck pass him; but then again, he hadn't reached the cabin via the most direct route, either. Tugging his hood up to further shadow his face, Dean moved through the cluster of trees, swallowing almost convulsively as he worked to keep from drawing the attention of whomever had arrived in that truck.

Finding the group of trees where they'd hidden the duffel of weapons, Dean hunkered low, keeping his eyes on the back-end of the pick-up. He unzipped the bag, removed the shotgun, and glanced down, breaking the barrel to check the load: two rounds of rock-salt-filled shells. Snapping the barrel closed, he stood, his brow furrowed as he glanced from the quiet truck to the quiet cabin.

Something was wrong.

He moved forward at a crouch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention. Eyes darting back to the cabin, Dean made his way around the back of the truck, toward the driver's side. The door was standing open. Swallowing as pressure built in his chest, Dean continued forward, grasping the door as he peered inside.

The cab of the truck was empty.

His gloved hand slid on the edge of the door as he leaned in, causing him to lose his balance. Catching himself on the seat, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow and coughed, the ragged breath tearing through his chest and up his throat. Flashes of light dancing at the corner of his vision left him dizzy; the sound of his hoarse coughing eliminating any cover his stealth had bought him.

Taking a breath, he tucked the shotgun under his arm and pulled off his gloves, stuffing them in his pockets before he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to center himself. He felt the heat of his own skin, knew he was pushing it, but he needed to keep moving.

If he didn't solve this….

For a moment he stopped, one hand braced on the hard vinyl of the truck's bench seat, the other gripping the cold barrel of the sawed-off shotgun. It was so hard to think; the cold of the night seemed to climb inside of him, adding to the ache brought on by the cough. He had to remember that he had a job to do. There was always a job to do. No matter how bad he felt or how tired he was.

There was _always_ a job to do.

Straightening, ready to face whoever came his way, Dean grasped the door, preparing to shut it, when he realized what his hand had slipped on.

Ice.

The entire interior of the door was coated in a thin film of ice.

"What the _hell_?" he muttered, swinging the door closed.

The squawk of a radio startled him, dragging his gaze to the front of the truck. Caught in the shadow of the building, the moonlight doing more to hide than illuminate, Dean could see legs sprawled in the snow. He moved quickly, reaching the body as a voice on the radio called out, "_Johnson. Come in."_

Dean knew the moment he touched the leg that the man was dead. There was something too still about the give of flesh beneath his grip, the thrum of life completely absent. Crawling forward in the dark, Dean reached the man's shoulders and rolled him to his back. The radio was clipped to a strap of material on the man's jacket, an insistent voice continually calling for a report that wasn't going to come.

Hesitantly, Dean's felt along the man's neck, checking for a pulse he knew in his gut he wouldn't find. The skin was wet, ice forming quickly in the frigid night air.

Dean pulled his hand back. He knew how this man had died: the same way the lawyer Dean had watched drown at his office desk had died; the same way Mayor Jones had died.

Gripping the shotgun, a surge of indignant strength fueling him, Dean stood, slipping around the front of the truck and feeling his way between the truck and the cabin until he reached the building's edge. The shadows lessened in the front, his eyes wide enough in the dark to take in both shadow and pale light. He saw the front door and felt his body shift, settling into a recognized stance, his jaw tightening, his eyes hooded.

"This ends. Now." He gripped the door knob and twisted, pushing his way into the dark interior.

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Sam ran.

Using the flashlight Cooper had given him, he was able to follow Dean's wavering path through the trees to the cabin. It would have been more direct to jump on the road that the cop's truck had followed, but Sam was worried that Dean might not have made it all the way to the cabin, so he went the same way his brother had, hoping to catch up.

Only, Dean had too far a lead on him.

Sam knew that even with weakened lungs and working on a fever, Dean wouldn't slow, wouldn't stop. Not unless something stopped him—took his choice away. He'd focus on the job to the detriment of all else.

Sam was convinced that this job was going to get his brother killed one day. There would be one sacrifice too many, and the job would ultimately claim Dean. Pausing to lean against a tree, Sam dragged his arm across his dry mouth as a chill shot through him that had nothing to do with the cold.

He looked over his shoulder; he'd gone far enough that he could no longer see the lights from the beachhead. He spared a thought to what the cops had seen on the monitor, then trained his light toward where he knew the cabin was. The beam of light illuminated something on the snow just ahead of him.

Sniffing, the cold air dragging moisture from every place it could, Sam shone the flashlight on the dark stain.

_Blood?_

Dean hadn't been bleeding. Could it have been an animal? Sam looked up and around, turning the flashlight on the trees around him as he did so. He hadn't so much as heard an owl's cry. It occurred to him that the woods had been ominously silent the whole time—since he'd left the diner in search of a shovel. None of the regular noise he expected to hear in a sparsely populated, wooded area had met his ears. He'd blamed the snow dampening the sound, but….

He looked back down at the red stain. It wasn't an animal. It had to have been Dean. It _was_ Dean's blood. But how…?

And then it hit him: pneumonia. Dean wasn't bleeding—not on the outside anyway. His lungs were getting worse.

"Dammit, Dean," he cursed and started to move forward.

The ring tone on his cell phone startled him so greatly that he yelped before pulling off a glove to dig it from his pocket.

"Dean?" he bit off into the phone, ready to ream his brother for his bone headedness.

"_What? No. No, it's Cooper."_

Sam blinked, shaking himself. "Sorry, I—skip it. What's up?"

Cooper sounded shaken, his voice quavering with uncertainty and an underlying current of fear that rippled across Sam's skin like the touch of cold fingers.

"_There's, uh…they cleared away the debris,"_ Cooper said, clearing his throat, _"from around the bones."_

"Good," Sam nodded, walking in the direction of the cabin once more. "Sooner we get him pulled up, the sooner—"

"_Sam."_ Cooper interrupted him.

Sam stopped, the beam of light dropping to illuminate a small circle of snow as he stood waiting for the M.E.'s next words.

"_There were two."_

"Two?" Sam repeated, not comprehending.

"_Two bodies. There were two."_ Cooper's breath rushed out across the mouthpiece of the phone in an exhale of disbelief. _"Two sets of bones all…tangled together."_

"Two."

"_I'll have to get them back to the morgue to positively identify them, but…I don't think we can assume—"_

"Oh, shit," Sam breathed, bringing his fist up and pressing the butt of the flashlight against his forehead. Realization made him dizzy as the facts suddenly added up. "Shit!"

"_What?"_ Cooper asked, the unfamiliar ground of doubt edging his voice.

"I know who it is," Sam told him, his boots crunching the snow as he picked up speed, shining the flashlight on the trees to keep from crashing into them in the dark. "I know who it is."

He clicked the phone shut on Cooper's bellow demanding answers and stuffed it back into his pocket as he ran. He had to get to Dean.

Now.

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The smell of mold and rust was stronger than before as Dean stepped into the cabin.

Keeping the sawed-off shotgun at his waist, barrel preceding him into the room, he blinked, his eyes working to draw in as much of the room as he could in the dark. The moonlight barely penetrated the murk of night inside the cabin and his heart beat hard against his ribs in anticipation of what he might find.

He remembered the layout of the room and started toward the door to the attic door, stumbling when his left leg caught on the back of the couch—the couch he'd remembered being positioned in front of the fireplace. Frowning, he dug into his pocket and pulled out his lighter, flicking it on and holding it up while balancing the shotgun across his other arm.

The pale yellow glow of the flame was barely enough to illuminate beyond where he was standing, but what he could make out chilled him. There was no way Wallace had been living here for the last four years—ghost caretaker or not.

The cabin was no longer a rough-hewn retreat for father and son. It was dead, abandoned, rotting.

The place he and Sam had seen, had stayed in, had been an illusion. A memory strong enough to make them believe. The couch next to him had been gutted and looked as if some kind of animal had nested within its coils and stuffing at some point. The fireplace was empty, bird or squirrel bones littering the hearth. Cobwebs draped in morbid blankets across a crumbling pile of logs.

Dean tilted his head, though, as his eyes caught on a stack of blankets—untouched by the décor of dust and decay and completely out of place within the confines of the dead house. He started toward them, letting the flame go out as it started to burn his thumb. He'd only taken two steps, away from the front door, when the gust of wind blew through the house like a disenchanted moan, slamming the door shut behind him.

He whirled, dropping his lighter and bringing up the shotgun.

"Colin!" he bellowed. "Give it up, man!"

He could hear whispering, too low to pick out the words, too consistent to be just one voice. Rolling his lips against his teeth, he used the couch as a marker and made his way through the dark cabin toward where he remembered the attic door to be. As he passed the ornate mirror, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Pausing, he looked over, surprised the he could see anything in the darkness, let alone his reflection.

Only it wasn't his reflection.

It wasn't even a face.

He saw the back of someone's head and shoulders—as if they were looking out through the kitchen window. Instinctively, he looked back over at the window, though he knew no one would be standing there. Turning back to the mirror, he jerked away when he saw a woman staring now out at him—young, sad eyes, her skin bluish in the light caught inside the mirror.

He blinked, wanting to move away, but feeling rooted to the spot. The whispering increased until he could make out one word, over and over.

_Dean_.

The woman's face faded slowly, leaving only the after image of a skull. As he stared, the mirror began leaking, water slipping from the edges of the frame and running unchecked down the wall.

_Dean…Dean…Dean._

"Shut the hell up!" He yelled, cocking the shotgun in a desperate show of power.

The whispering ceased. The mirror went dark. The water was gone—as if it had never been there.

"You damn ghosts and your damn freak shows," he growled, his voice rough as the urge to cough pressed against it. "This is not gonna work—you're _not_ gettin' inside my head."

He stormed forward, tripping over a wooden kitchen chair in the dark. He grabbed it and threw it toward the fireplace. With a frustrated grunt of effort, he shoved the rickety kitchen table across the small kitchen, feeling a splash of satisfaction when he heard it crash against the counter.

"You're all the same." He headed toward the attic door, though in the back of his mind he knew it was pointless—Wallace wasn't up there. Not in the flesh in any case. "Holding on to something that isn't _yours_ anymore."

He ripped open the attic door and the smell of decay that wafted down made him gag, bowing him with a ragged cough that nearly sent him to his knees. His eyes watered as he gasped for breath, looking up the stairway, the top of the stairs lost in impenetrable darkness.

Dark ate dark and the longer he looked, the smaller he felt.

"Just let it go," he whispered, almost listlessly, sound too much of an effort.

He worked to spark up the fire, the indignation at the dead daring to walk among them, wreaking havoc on their lives. He wanted to blast the spirit away, put it in its place. But he couldn't seem to find the strength to lift his arms, to move forward. His energy, his _will_, was being slowly siphoned away by the cold, sucked up into the dark of the attic.

_I tried to save them…._

Dean turned, the voice coming from the living room. He couldn't see anything there.

_I tried to stop it…._

"Whatever you tried it didn't work," Dean said back to the empty cabin. "It didn't work and now you gotta_ let it go_."

Taking a shallow breath, he moved up two stairs. "What are you _doin'_, Dean?" he muttered to himself.

He should turn around, head back to Sam, burn the bones.

Instead he moved up another step.

And that's when he felt it: the cold hand reaching out, slipping up his body like a lover's touch, wrapping around him in a greedy embrace.

The darkness from the lake. It was here. Waiting for him. It had been waiting all this time; it was ready to take him, keep him, hold him under until he stopped kicking, until he surrendered.

"NO!" Dean bellowed, firing one of the barrels up the flight of stairs into nothingness, the rock salt peppering the dark as a scream of anger echoed around and inside of him.

He was thrown backward, a force of power and air slamming against his chest, tossing him off his feet and down the stairs as easily as if someone were flicking away a fly. He landed hard on his back, the shotgun skidding from his hand, out of reach, air rushing away in a panicked escape from his lungs.

His ears rang and he could feel the grit of salt from the shotgun blast powdering his cold cheeks and dry lips. He gasped in, lungs desperate for air, and pulled the salt into his mouth, coughing weakly as he tried to roll to his side, meaning to push himself up.

He never made it.

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"NO!"

Sam heard Dean's bellow just as the beam of his light hit the side of the cabin.

"_Dean_," Sam breathed, rushing forward.

The unmistakable _boom_ of a shotgun being fired had him finding another gear, reaching the door just as a scream tore through the night. It was heartbreak, denial, and fury rushed together in a surge of sound and power. The door shook with the force of the cry and as Sam reached for the handle he saw to his amazement that ice had formed around the knob—growing and spreading until it encased the entire door.

"What the…."

Stumbling back a step, Sam swept the beam of his light over the front of the cabin, watching as the ice grew, trapping Dean inside with the ghosts.

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The same surge of power that had thrown him down the stairs grabbed him around the middle and pulled him along the dirty, rotting floor, slamming him forcibly into the mess of kitchen table and chairs he'd shoved to the side.

Dean had one second to grab a breath before the same unseen power collected him as if he were no more than a scrap of paper and slapped him against the wall next to the mirror. He grunted as his body absorbed the blow, unable to fight back, unable to move. His eyes searched the darkness, seeking the source of this power.

Because there was always a source. There was always a being abusing the supernatural powers it gathered by crossing over into a world that didn't want it anymore.

"Okay," Dean wheezed. "You got my attention."

"I thought your brother was like me." The voice came from the shadows of the living room, but Dean was surprised at its fullness. It was real, _there._ As if there were really someone else standing in the room with him.

"Like you?" He coughed, swallowing the fire crawling up his throat from his wounded lungs.

"A soldier," the voice replied.

Dean frowned, "What?"

Footsteps filled the quiet cabin as the figure moved closer, still not free of the dark, not close enough for Dean to see.

"I saw something in him. Recognized…myself, you could say," the voice continued.

And then the figure stepped out of the darkness, so close that if it breathed, Dean would have felt the air trace across his skin. Dean's heart shivered at the sight, his muscles—frozen and pinned against the wall with unnatural force—turned to water with the base reaction of fear.

_The Reaper._

The pale skin, the deep lines, the bottomless eyes, the wide grin spread over too many teeth. It was the specter he'd seen standing over Sam at the edge of the lake.

He couldn't breathe. His lungs had been pressed flat, his throat closed. He simply gaped as the figured stared at him. And then it tilted its head in a very human, inquisitive motion and Dean saw the features shift, reform themselves into a face. One he hadn't seen before, but knew instinctively.

"Colin?"

"I thought your brother was their enemy." Colin's eyes narrowed. "I thought he was like me."

Dean's sluggish mind fought to keep up. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Colin turned away and Dean closed his eyes, trying to breathe, trying to swallow. The fear, the very real horror that had knifed through him thinking he had seen a Reaper had all been a mistake.

He had been seeing Colin's true face—the face Sam had been unable to see.

Dimly, as if from far away, he heard a repetitive pounding, an insistent crash. Flinching, he remembered the thunder of bullets through ice, the colliding of reality into the darkness that had been working to take him under.

"It's all I can do," Colin was saying. "I fight them off, keep them away from us. Every time they get close I find new ways to send them running. And then…suddenly, your brother came and I thought I had an ally."

Colin turned, facing Dean once more with his fathomless eyes. "Only he wasn't, was he?"

"My brother _hunts_ things like you," Dean stated, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Sends you back to where you belong."

"So do you," Colin said, his face close to Dean's once more. "I can _hear_ you, Dean."

Dean worked to keep his eyes flat, knowing instinctively that Colin was somehow seeing farther inside of him than anyone living had ever looked.

"I can hear your fear. I can hear you crying out for help."

"How about you go fu—"

His words were stolen, choked off as a hand of ice wrapped around his throat. He felt Colin's fingers tighten, though the figure itself hadn't moved.

"You want to kill all of us." Colin's voice bounced in a strangled whisper inside Dean's head, though the figure's lips never moved. "And you don't even know what they did to us. You don't even know why I'm _here_."

Dean fought to lift his hands, desperate to pull the fingers away from his throat.

"D-does…doesn't…ma-matter…."

"It _does_ matter," Colin whispered, this time through his pale lips. "And I'll show you why."

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Sam beat his gloved hands against the ice-covered door, fury and exhaustion burning his muscle's energy. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, listening. He couldn't hear anything—not one sound after his brother's cry and the shotgun blast.

His stomach was a block of ice, his fear a tangible thing thrashing inside of him. He couldn't lose Dean, not now. Not like _this._ Not after all they'd been through, all they still had to do.

Turning around he cast about with the flashlight, looking for a fallen tree branch, a rock, anything. His eyes fell on the canvass duffle bag and he ran over, thinking to grab the shotgun he'd spied in their earlier. His curse cut the frozen air like acid when he found it missing, realizing belatedly that it was the sound he'd heard inside the cabin.

"Oh, please," he whispered, hoping that meant Dean was fighting back.

An armed Dean was a dangerous Dean.

Grabbing his brother's 1911 from the duffle, he checked the clip and pulled his own Beretta from the waistband of his jeans. Slinging the duffle over his shoulder, Sam marched back up to the door and prepared to blast the lock open.

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Dean felt Colin's hands shift from his throat to his arms, pressing him against the wall; pinning him there with an impenetrable force, gripping tight enough to bruise.

"Promises were made," Colin said, his mouth next to Dean's ear. Dean wanted desperately to draw away, but was incapable of the slightest twitch. "They were _so easily_ broken. We took him from the place where _they_ put him, back to our house—our house empty of everything but the memories—to show him there was nothing left. It was all gone. We weren't supposed to be there, but he needed to see. And McAvoy had promised us time. The time we needed to say goodbye."

The droning words were a drumbeat in Dean's mind. The image of Colin—human or Reaper—faded to black.

"When he saw what had happened to his home he went insane. Maybe he already was…," Colin continued, his voice inside Dean's head as surely as his hands gripped Dean's body in iron. "All he wanted was to stay here…and he wasn't about to let us leave. He killed her first. Just one hit, but she bled so much."

Dean felt his body shaking, felt _Colin_ shaking, as the image of the girl from the mirror crossed his vision, her head snapping back from the force of a blow, blood flowing in a fan of red. He struggled against the invastion of his mind, but he couldn't get away. He was trapped, forced to witness the death of this family through Colin's eyes. He could see what Colin had seen. Feel what the man had felt.

"I tried to leave—grab her body up and take her with me, but he held me. He wrapped himself around me with a strength I wouldn't have thought possible for a man in his condition."

Invisible arms seemed to encircled Dean, wrapped around him, pressing him back, anchoring him even more firmly to the wall as he tried to fight. He heard himself scream, curse, plead. He heard desperation in his voice as he demanded to be released. He couldn't tell where his panic ended and Colin's pain began.

"We heard the explosions as they blew the dam. They _had to _know we were still there…." Colin's hollow voice filled Dean's head.

The world shook around Dean and rumbling filled the air as he relived the last moment of another man's life, unable to see anything but the inside of a house that had been submerged beneath a lake for years.

His body shook with rage, felt fear build low in his gut, climb his ribcage like a ladder. And this, he knew, was _his_ fear. _His_ rage. And he clung to it, trying to break free.

"And then the water hit."

Dean felt the arms that were wrapped around him flex tighter, as if their owner knew exactly what he was doing. He fought harder, his air constricting, his body bucking as a torrent of icy water slammed through the windows, tearing away the casements, filling the room and washing over them all in a cold shower of fate, lifting the woman's body and sweeping it away.

He heard a voice—Colin's voice, but not the voice narrating his bizarre vision; a younger, terrified version—scream two words: _"Pop, please!"_

And then the water consumed him.

Dean thrust his chin up, instinctively looking to find air. But the water was stronger, fiercer. It crashed against him with intent, and Dean felt it filling his lungs.

He coughed, gagging, desperate for air. His body shook, but the water continued to fill him up until it had almost crested the top of his lungs, ending any hope of breath, any idea of survival. He choked, unable to draw air, water spilling from his frozen lips, splashing down his cold chin.

He was drowning, pinned against a wall inside a dead cabin.

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The first shots were wholly ineffectual and Sam cursed the night, his voice echoing against the uncaring trees as the sound of his bullets had seconds ago. Taking a breath, Sam tucked the flashlight under his arm, aiming both guns at the seal of ice along the lock of the door and squeezed the triggers. The recoil of both weapons shook through his body, bruising his palms, but the ice began to crack.

He didn't know if he was making it happen, or if Dean was doing something inside, but at this point, he didn't care.

The ice broke from the seal of the door and Sam raised a foot, channeling his brother as he slammed his boot against the weakened frame. The door splintered, cracking enough for Sam to glimpse the blue-lit darkness within. He kicked at the wood once more, stumbling through when the rest of the door shattered, skidding to his knees as the duffle drew him off-balance.

The sight before him etched into his brain as an image that would haunt his vivid dreams for months to come.

Dean was pressed against the wall next to the mirror Sam had felt was so out of place. He was shaking, his body twitching as if attached to a live wire. His eyes were rolled back, lashes fluttering. A horrid, bone-chilling sound slipped from him as water poured from his mouth, down his chin, soaking his clothes.

And standing in front of Dean, watching him die, was Colin.

"Stop!" Sam screamed, the only word he could think of to articulate what he desperately needed to happen.

Colin looked over at him and Sam jerked as he saw the features of a specter, pale and lined, with eyes too-dark and mouth too-wide. As Colin stared, though, the image shifted into the face Sam knew—the ageless soldier with a haunted face, his expression slipping from pain to confusion.

"Sam?"

"Colin, let him go!"

Colin looked back at Dean as if just seeing him there. He took a step back and Dean slumped to the floor, his head and shoulders propped up by the wall. He tipped over, retching as his body instinctively rid itself of the water that had nearly killed him. Sam started to move to him, but felt himself held back, unable to shift from his knees, prevented from helping.

"Dean?"

Dean kept gagging, water pouring from his mouth, soaking the floor, his eyes closed.

"_Dean!"_

Sam tightened his stomach muscles, trying to fight against the force holding him still, the urgency in his voice seeming to penetrate the fog that wrapped around his brother. Dean gasped as his body was finally free of water. He lifted his eyes and the pain and grief caught there cut through Sam like a sharpened blade.

"Sam," Dean breathed, doubling over with the force of a wet, rattling cough.

"Hang in there, man," Sam implored, looking back at Colin. "Hey—Colin, hey!"

Colin looked at Sam again, tilting his head as if deciding which piece of him to cut off first.

"I can help you," Sam told him, needing to draw him away from his brother. "I can stop all of this."

"How?" Colin asked. "Are you going to go back and make them keep their promise? Stop them from blowing the dam?"

"No, but—"

"Are you going to keep them from stuffing my father in a retirement home? Forgetting about him, after all he did for this town?"

"I can't do that, Colin."

"Are you going to save my sister?" Colin was now standing in front of him. Sam hadn't even seen him move. "Are you going to ease her pain?"

"Colin—"

"You can't help me," Colin said, his voice low and devastated. "No one can."

Sam expected a blow; he anticipated an unseen force shoving him backwards as had happened so many times before. What he didn't see coming was Colin's hand—as real and physical as Sam's—reaching out, grabbing him by the throat, and pulling him to his feet.

www

Dean was in a pain-filled haze.

His lungs felt heavy, wet, and practically useless. He couldn't fill them with air, could only breath shallow, and they spasmed rhythmically with the desperate need to cough, though nothing came up, and nothing came out. The water that had filled him from the inside was gone, but he was no closer to relief.

He lifted weighted eyes from his slouched position on the floor, propped up beneath Josephine's mirror, and saw Sam drawing Colin away from him. Somehow he mustered up a half smile, hoping to catch Sam's eyes, hoping to encourage him, hoping to give him strength.

He didn't expect to see Colin reach out and grab his brother by the throat—actually _touch_ him—and drag him upward. Sam reached up, grabbing at Colin's hands, pulling at the ghost's fingers, trying to breathe.

"I thought you would understand," Colin was saying to Sam as he shook him like a rag doll, Sam gasping for breath. "I saw you fighting them—I thought we were kindred spirits. I sent them away, confused them and turned them away—for you. I _saved_ you."

"Y-you…," Sam tried. "C-can't…."

"I can't? I _can't_?" Colin shoved Sam back, releasing his throat and grabbing him up by the front of his coat.

Sam coughed, dragging in breath. Weakly, Dean pushed himself to a sitting position, eyes searching the dark cabin for something to help his brother. His eyes landed on the discarded shotgun, its barrel tucked up under the green duffle Sam had apparently brought in with him.

Colin gripped Sam's coat and slammed him against the wall. "You're here to stop me!"

"You can't bring them back," Sam finally managed to choke out, reaching back on instinct and grabbing Colin's shirt.

Dean gaped. He'd never seen a ghost become corporeal enough to _touch_ before, let alone _be_ touched. Any questions as to how Colin managed to get Sam back to the cabin were dispelled the moment he saw the spirit's ability to harness the raw power of hatred to the point of physical connection.

"No," Colin shook his head, pulling Sam up and close to his face, "but I can send a lot more to join them."

Before Dean could do more than drag in a limp breath, Colin threw Sam across the room, his brother's lanky body slamming into the side of the fireplace and crumpling to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs. Sam groaned once, but then went still.

"Sam!" Dean cried out in alarm, his voice barely a whisper.

Colin ignored him and turned to shove the decaying couch out of the way, marching toward Sam. Dean harnessed what remained of his strength and rolled from the wall toward the duffle bag, grabbing the sawed-off shotgun—which suddenly seemed to weigh a hundred pounds—and lifted it. Colin turned his way at the sound of the chambered round, but Dean didn't pause.

He aimed at the soldier's chest, the dog tags that had given him away hanging like a target over his heart, and fired. The rock salt scattered Colin's image and left the cabin filled with nothing but darkness.

Only Dean knew that darkness had a _will_—it had greedy fingers and a steadfast grip and if it got hold of them, he wasn't sure it would ever let go. Fumbling with shaking fingers, he dug into the duffle and pulled out two more rounds, reloading the shotgun and lifting it to point at the spot he'd last seen Colin.

"Sam?"

He could barely see the huddled mass of his brother across the room. The dark seemed to grow. He could _hear_ it creak and groan as it spread across the room, climbing his legs like a living thing. Desperately, Dean fired into the darkest corner of the room—away from Sam—and felt a shaking grin of satisfaction relax his face when the cabin screamed around him.

"Mess with the bull," he breathed, firing the second barrel, only this time toward the dark kitchen, "you get the horns."

He shoved two more rounds into the shotgun, then with agonizing slowness, pulled his body weakly toward Sam.

"Sammy?"

He heard a welcoming groan as the Sam-shaped lump shifted, a pale face rising toward him.

"Dean?"

Dean slumped, reaching out a hand, lacking the strength to draw his body closer. His fingers tangled in the loose folds of Sam's coat. He coughed weakly, his chest constricting, his throat raw.

"Yeah. You okay?"

Sam crawled closer to him.

"Head hurts," Sam confessed, and Dean detected movement as Sam lifted a hand to his face.

He couldn't really see his brother, but he knew him well enough to feel his movement, sense his motion.

"You bleeding?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "He…grabbed me."

"I saw," Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady, though his body worked to betray him.

A different kind of darkness fought to pull him down—this one not easily fought back with rock salt. This one was inside of him, reminding him that he wasn't made of steel. That he could be broken.

"Need to get out of here," Sam said suddenly. "He's not gone."

"I know," Dean swallowed. "There's a truck. Side of the cabin."

The dark groaned again and Dean felt his heart drop. He knew this spirit…felt it as keenly as he felt Sam's motion. It had climbed into him—seen him in ways no one living had ever seen. It had known how to force his surrender.

He pointed the shotgun at the darkest corner of the cabin and pulled both barrels, hearing Sam cry out in startled surprise behind him at the sound. A wounded, sucking sound filled the rotting cabin and the darkness retreated once more. Dean dropped back, his head resting against the dirt-covered floor.

"It's Wallace," Sam almost whimpered; Dean knew his brother's strength was depleting.

"I know," Dean said again, trying to piece together enough of the right words to get his brother out of there, get him safe. "Sam—get to the truck. There's a cop…out in the snow."

"No way I'm leaving you," Sam declared.

Dean heard him sliding closer. He was afraid—afraid of the darkness touching Sam. Afraid of it _seeing _Sam.

Afraid of what would happen if the darkness climbed inside of him again as it had done in the lake. Afraid that this time, there would be no hand pulling him free, no fight left.

He was desperate to get Sam away, keep him safe, keep him close. It was a familiar fear, so real he could almost touch it.

"We gotta burn the cabin," Dean said, sensing his brother close to him.

Sam's hands were at his shoulders, lifting him up. Dean barely had the strength to tilt his head forward so that it didn't hang back as his shoulders left the ground.

"The bones are going to the morgue," Sam said in protest.

"We gotta burn those, too," Dean said, leaning against his brother's chest. "But the only way…the only way he could touch you…."

"He's getting strength from here," Sam followed his reasoning.

Dean nodded, another chest-rattling cough silencing any response.

"C'mon," Sam grunted, wrapping his arm around Dean's chest and pushing himself to a shaky stance, pulling Dean with him.

Dean shoved his feet under him, locking his knees in an effort to stay upright. He hadn't been able to keep hold of the shotgun, but at this point, he almost didn't care. They had more weapons—as long as they lived long enough to get back to them. Sam lifted his arm and slung it across his shoulders, wrapping his other arm around Dean's waist.

"Let's go."

"Sam, the cabin."

"I'll come back," Sam said. "Need to get you out of here."

Dean wanted to protest, wanted to help, but he had nothing left. He felt himself shaking as if he were once again watching someone else's body.

He could barely force his legs to move as Sam led them toward the destroyed door. His muscles were tense and tired, expecting a blow from behind with every halting step. As they stepped clear of the cloistered gloom of the cabin in the bite of the night air, Dean began to cough once more, the force of it folding him, turning him into trembling dead weight in his brother's arms.

Sam stumbled, trying to hold him. They ended up on their knees. Dean barely felt the chill of the snow; the night air cut through his wet clothes with a frigid pain.

Dean felt his brother's arms gripping him, heard Sam's voice murmuring meaningless words meant to comfort. His eyes watered and his head spun, desperate for oxygen. As the cough abated, he felt the thick fluid in his mouth, the coppery taste of blood on his tongue. Turning his head he spat it out, dragging a heavy hand across his mouth.

"God damn," he whispered. "Sucks."

"Hang in there," Sam encouraged. "We'll get you back to Cooper, get you fixed up."

"Gotta burn…burn the bones," Dean gasped as Sam pulled him to his feet once more. His feet dragged in the snow as Sam hauled them forward.

"_Jesus_, Dean."

Something caught in Sam's voice—a sob, a curse. Something that pierced Dean's haze of pain and weakness. Something that had him rolling his head to peer at his brother in the filtered moonlight.

"You think _any_ of this shit matters if you die?"

"What?" Dean blinked, reaching up a clumsy hand to grab at Sam's coat as they approached the passenger side of the truck. "What are you…talking about?"

He saw Sam's eyes hit the out-flung hand of the dead cop lying in front of the truck. Turning him clumsily in his arms, Sam shoved Dean against the side of the truck and held him there with one hand while he opened the passenger door with the other. Dean felt an automatic instinct to push Sam's hand away and to follow the motion with a sarcastic remark about Sam's take-charge attitude.

But then he saw the blood matting his brother's hair, collecting in his eyebrow, tracing lines down his cheek and crystallizing with the cold.

And he couldn't move. He could barely draw breath, the pain in his chest was so great. And it was a pain that had nothing to do with being sick.

"We shouldn't even be here," Sam snapped, grabbing Dean's arms and moving him to the side, toward the now-opened door. "But you saw a job—"

"You saw it too—"

"—and you couldn't say no. You couldn't let it go. Even after it almost killed you." Sam shoved him into the cab of the truck.

Dean fell sideways, pushing himself upright on trembling arms to look over at his brother.

"And I went along with it," Sam said, reluctant admission drawing his eyes low. "Because it's who we are."

"Sa—" Dean tried, doubling over as his chest worked to explode outward.

He wrapped his arms tight around his chest, feeling the warm splashes of blood on his lips as his lungs ripped upwards. He dragged the back of his hand across his lips, smearing the blood on his skin. Sam sighed, his hands gentle as he eased Dean up onto the seat.

"I'll be right back," Sam said, closing the door.

Dean leaned against it, watching as Sam moved to the front and grabbed the dead cop under the arms, dragging him through the snow to the bed of the truck. The vehicle shifted as Sam hefted the body to the bed of the truck. Dean turned, hearing his own rasping breath hit the window as a cloud of condensation appeared. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, watching with anxious eyes as Sam disappeared around the corner of the cabin.

It felt like hours passed, nothing but the sound of his too-loud breathing ticking away the seconds. His heart shook, his hands shook, his body shook. Shivers ran through him without ceasing and still he watched, unable to tear his eyes from the window, wanting to be the one inside, spilling the salt, spreading the fuel, striking the match.

The only thing that kept him from following Sam was the simple fact that he had nothing left. He could barely stay upright, eyes pinned to the window, breath clouding the window.

And then Sam returned, his lumbering stride lagging with fatigue, the blood dried on his face. He tossed the duffle in the back with the cop's body and moved around to the driver's side of the truck, pulling the door open and climbing in.

"You have any help in there?" Dean rasped.

Sam looked over at him, his face pulled into a pained pinch at the sound of Dean's voice.

"No," he shook his head. "It was quiet."

"Something tells me…that's not good."

"Yeah, I know," Sam grumbled, feeling around for the keys. "You see any keys?"

Dean shook his head. "Cop?"

The sound of popping came from inside the house. Dean looked over and saw flames climb through the small window at the side of the cabin, the fire gorging itself on the brittle wood. The truck was parked too close for safety.

"No time," Sam said, tipping Dean forward and pulling his knife from the sheath at his back.

Dean slumped against the driver's door, watching as Sam used the large blade to strip the wires, cutting the two important ones, then tapping them to get a spark.

"This is…the only car thing…you ever wanted…to learn," Dean said, sharp gasps for breath punctuating his sentence.

"That's because it was cool," Sam said, straightening as the diesel engine roared to life. "And I could impress girls."

Dean shook his head, breathing shallowly, and leaning back against the seat as they pulled away, the glow from the burning cabin lighting up the interior of the truck. He closed his eyes against the sight, seeking the reserves of energy he would have to find in order to finish this.

www

Sam gripped the cold steering wheel, forcing himself to ignore the sound of the body bouncing against the bed of the truck as they traversed the ruts and ridges of the untreated road on the way to Lethe's cobblestone streets. He'd been able to see the man's face literally frozen in fear when he lifted the body into the truck and he nearly threw up remembering the sight of Dean pinned against that wall.

It had been too close. Too close this time.

Every time.

It seemed like they were never clear of danger; it was never _just_ a hunt. He glanced over at Dean as they pulled onto Lethe's deserted main street. The sound of his brother's breathing was frightening—shallow, rough, rattling. It had been bad before, but after Colin—

"You okay?" Dean rasped, startling Sam into returning his eyes to the road and correcting the drift of the truck.

"Fine," he replied automatically, having no real idea if that would ever be true again.

His head was killing him, a sharp stab of nails at his temple where he felt dried blood itching his scalp. It had spread down to his jaw, making even talking difficult. It felt frighteningly close to the near-migraine-like pain his visions always bestowed upon him.

But, he reasoned, if he could survive that pain, he could survive this one. And they were in it now—there was no escape until they'd finished this. Otherwise, he was certain they'd be leaving the people of Lethe to die, whether or not they were connected to the Sanderson family fate.

"Almost there," he reassured his brother, watching as Dean's hands stretched to grip the edge of the bench seat, his body still shaking.

He took a right harder than he meant to and heard their cargo shift in the bed of the truck. He winced, nauseous once more at the thought of what had happened to that poor man. Slowing slightly in deference to their passenger, he pulled up next to the back entrance to Cooper's office, curbing the tires.

Shutting off the engine, he climbed out and made his way around the back end of the truck, grabbing their duffle as he went. It still had the empty handguns, shotgun, and rock salt rounds in it, as well as enough salt to pour over the bones. By the time he reached the passenger door, Dean had it open and was hanging on it and the seat, swallowing convulsively.

Sam winced in sympathy knowing his brother would do just about anything to not cough any more. Wordlessly he stepped in close, tucking his shoulder under Dean's right arm and helping him stand. They reached the back door of the office together just as Cooper pulled it open, standing in the warmth of the building, the lights behind him shining like a halo.

"What the _hell_ happened to you?"

Sam bullied his way through the door, pushing Cooper aside. He glanced down at Dean only now seeing blood on his brother's lips, smeared down his chin. Cooper followed Sam's gaze and Sam heard him swear.

"Get in here," he all-but growled, slamming the door behind them.

"Sam," Dean gasped. "Cop."

Sam nodded, gripping Dean tighter as he looked at Cooper. "The cop that Mead sent…he didn't make it."

"What?" Cooper breathed, his eyes going wide. Too many blows in too little time were shifting the man's balance and Sam was afraid for a moment that they were about to lose their ally.

"He's in the back of the truck," Sam closed one eye against the bright lights of the office as his head kicked at him. "Oh, and," he reached up with his free hand and pressed the heel of his palm against his tender temple. "You might want to send the fire department or whatever you've got out to the old cabin."

"Don't put it out," Dean said, his voice sounding hauntingly like John's with the order.

Sam shook his head gingerly as Cooper continued to gape at them. "No, let the cabin burn. Just…might want to keep the trees from catching."

Cooper made an obvious physical effort to close his mouth, the sound of his teeth clicking together audible over Dean's rough breathing. Sam watched him blink twice, his pupils going from wide to narrow as he wrestled himself under control.

"First things first," he declared. "I need to call an airlift to Madison for—"

"No," Dean shook his head. "Can't."

"Son, I don't know if I—"

"Cooper, please," Sam said as he felt Dean start to pull away, his brother's instincts kicking in over his weakened body. "We can't go to a hospital, not now."

Cooper stared at Dean, pushing out his lips as his eyes began to narrow, the lines framing them drawing in like parentheses. Dean grew heavier against Sam, his trembling visible even in the warmth of the office. Sam's head began to pound with a vengeance and he wanted nothing more than to slide down the wall and close his eyes. Just rest.

But Dean was still holding his own. He was leaning on Sam, but he was still carrying as much of his own weight as he could. And Sam wasn't about to give in while his brother was still standing.

"This have anything to do with that fax?"

"What fax?" Sam asked.

Cooper lifted a shoulder, pulling a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolding it. He turned it around to face the brothers.

"Fuck," Dean breathed, dropping his head, and bringing up his blood-stained hand to wipe at his mouth once more.

Sam saw Dean's mug shot from Baltimore with the words _WANTED on suspicion of murder, grave desecration, and armed robbery _beneath it. Lower still Sam saw that Dean was to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Agent Hendrickson's name and a number to reach him was below that, as was a hand-written promise to follow up within twenty-four hours of the fax.

"Cooper," Sam said, his voice thin, "we can explain."

"Thought you said you had no problem with cops."

"We don't," Dean whispered. "They've got a problem with us."

Sam thought about the dead cop in the back of the truck. He closed his eyes and he and Dean swayed back until their interlocked shoulders were leaning against the wall.

"It's not what you think," Sam said, eyes still closed. "This Agent guy has it all wrong."

Silence ticked by for a few seconds and in the quiet Sam heard Dean's breathing rattle loudly. He heard the heat kick on in the office. He heard a calloused hand rasp across a bearded face.

And he heard surrender in a sigh.

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly but he felt Dean shift against him and knew his brother had picked up on it, too.

"Well," Cooper said finally, "it's probably a good thing that I grabbed this before Matthew saw it."

Sam opened his eyes, looking back at the M.E. with gratitude.

"But looks like you got twenty-four hours before this agent calls to follow up."

"We can deal with that," Dean said.

"But first," Cooper started, reaching over and taking Dean's weight from Sam.

Sam's legs nearly gave out. He pressed his hand against the wall, not realizing how much he'd also been leaning on Dean for balance. He looked at his brother, Dean's shaking more evident now that he was staring directly at him. Dean glanced back, his eyes hooded and fever-bright.

"We need to get you two fixed up as best we can," Cooper finished.

"Don't have much time," Dean said. "Colin—" His explanation was choked off by a rough cough.

With a glower at both of them, Cooper turned and hauled Dean down the hall toward his exam room. Sam followed, listening as the M.E. growled angrily, "I don't much care what that ghost of yours might have planned. _You're_ my priority now."

Sam stood in the exam room, unsure where to go, what to do. Someone had made _them _a priority—had taken the responsibility from their shoulders. And he was at a loss.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked, his focus vague.

He saw Dean look over at him, his eyes strangely sharp.

"Sit down, Sam," Dean ordered.

His voice, though quiet, had no less of a punch than it normally did. Sam found himself reacting to his brother's instructions instinctively. He sank slowly into the nearest chair, his head swimming with a slightly disconnected sensation, his legs ticking like a cooling engine. He looked down at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.

"Good Lord, boys," Cooper muttered. "You are beat to hell. How often does this happen?"

Sam realized the M.E. was looking over at him. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him felt like crying. The end result was a pleading stare.

Cooper seemed to gather himself, helping Dean up on the exam table. Sam watched as Dean slumped forward, his trembling hands gripping the edge of the padded table, his eyes down-cast. Something about his posture frightened Sam. He needed his brother's eyes.

"Dean?"

As if on a string, Dean's head lifted, his gaze finding Sam.

"It's okay," Dean whispered. "We'll be okay, Sammy."

_Long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you._

Sam remembered the promise like he remembered how to break down and clean a gun, like he remembered how to get rid of a spirit, like he remembered how to breathe. It was a part of him now and he trusted it—he _had _to.

Cooper glanced between the two of them, and Sam saw something shift on his face. A slide from determination to sorrow so profound that for a moment Sam wondered what had brought the man to this town—alone, apparently—and what he'd left behind.

"I want you both to do exactly what I say," Cooper told them. "No arguments, no protests. Am I understood?"

The brothers nodded in unison.

"We'll deal with the bones and the ghosts and the cops and all that shit later."

Sam blinked, focusing harder on Cooper. He didn't know if he'd heard the man swear before.

"And I'll respect your decision to keep you out of the hospital and off the grid," he glanced at Dean, "unless I determine that I am not enough to save you."

Dean swallowed and nodded.

"I'll be right back," Cooper told them. "Do. Not. Move."

They nodded again, watching him leave.

"How'd you figure out it was Wallace?" Dean asked when Cooper left.

"What? Oh," Sam rubbed gingerly at his face, resisting the urge to scratch at the itch on the side of his head. "Cooper called when I was on the way to the cabin—and I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner, man. I could've followed the road and been there in half the time, but I followed your path through the woods, and…damn, Dean when I got there and the cabin froze over and I could hear you inside—"

"Sam," Dean halted him. "It's okay. We're here."

Sam took a breath. "Right, okay, sorry. Anyway, Cooper called and said that there were two sets of bones in the debris—all tangled together…and I just…I thought about that letter you found and I thought about how long it had been…and I couldn't figure out how a stroke victim would have survived out there and Mead was all _it's impossible_ and looking at me like I was eight kinds of crazy—"

"Dude, land your plane."

"It just made sense. It had to be Wallace." Sam looked at his brother, seeing his head hanging low once more.

"I think all…of this is…Wallace."

"What?" Cooper asked, entering the room with a canvas bag loaded with supplies Sam didn't bother trying to identify. "_What_ is all Wallace?"

Dean looked at the M.E., his eyes red-rimmed, his voice breathy, torn. "The killings…don't think it's all Colin…."

Holding up a hand to stop Dean's explanation, Cooper gave Sam a small mirror, a bottle of antiseptic and several pads of gauze. "I want you to clean out that cut on your head while I deal with your brother. Think you can do that?"

Sam nodded wordlessly, knowing that if the M.E. had any idea how many times he'd sewn up his own body the glare he'd get from the man's sharp eyes would be formidable.

He sucked in a pained hiss at the touch of the cold antiseptic to the cut on his scalp, feeling the raised welt along his hairline. It had stopped bleeding, but it hurt like a mother as he cleaned it out. He divided his attention between the mirror and Cooper's ministrations on Dean.

Cooper began to peel Dean's wet coats and shirts off, moving carefully as Dean's face pulled tight in pain as the bruised muscles along his back and chest apparently protested. He dropped them in a damp pile next to Dean, then grabbed a vinyl cuff and wrapped it around Dean's arm. Cooper swore under his breath as he took Dean's blood pressure, then checked his pupils and listened to his chest.

"You are a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?" Cooper finally asked as he dug out a small oxygen tank and face mask from the canvass bag.

"I know," Dean rasped. "Come by it honest."

"You can say that again," Sam muttered.

"There is no reason for you _not_ to be in a hospital," Cooper continued, cupping the back of Dean's neck and turning him so that he lay back against the propped-up, padded exam table.

Dean simply shook his head weakly, his eyes almost painful for Sam to look at.

"Has anyone said 'no' to you?" Cooper asked, carefully positioning the oxygen mask over Dean's nose and mouth as he adjusted the levels on the small tank.

"Sophie McKinley," Dean said, his breath clouding the clear mask. "Tenth grade."

Cooper's head tilted and Sam almost chuckled at the look of frustrated amusement on the M.E.'s face. He heard a buzzing sound from another room and frowned.

"Hold still," Cooper told Dean, grabbing up the wet clothes and disappearing around the corner only to return seconds later with an armful of blankets.

Sam could smell the heated warmth of dryer sheets on them. Cooper wrapped them around Dean's trembling body, tucked up tight to his neck, but pulled his right arm free. He wrapped a blue elastic band around Dean's upper arm.

"You are dehydrated, your system was slipping close to shock—and I don't know if you know this, but shock _can_ kill you," Cooper glared first at Dean, then over his shoulder at Sam.

His face now devoid of blood, the itching soothed by the cleansing antiseptic, Sam stared back at him with a _what did you want us to do_ expression.

Cooper sighed, turning back to Dean as he readied a needle and catheter, slipping the combination into a vein in Dean's arm. He attached a bag of clear liquid to the port, then hung the bag on a coat hook on the side of his cabinet. Sam watched as he twisted the port all the way open, then readied a needle and injected something into another port at the base of the bag.

"What is all of that?" Sam asked as Dean lay disconcertingly quiet on the table, cocooned in warm blankets.

"Saline solution and several anti-virals," Cooper nodded to the bag, "and some pain meds."

Dean's eyes shot over to Cooper and Sam picked up on his brother's panic right away. "He doesn't like pain meds, Coop," Sam informed the M.E.

Cooper looked down at Dean. "Don't guess you much like feeling like your lungs are being scraped out by a back-hoe each time you cough, either."

Dean looked over at Sam, and Sam knew what he was thinking: if he was out of it when the ghosts attacked….

"Don't worry," Cooper said. "This isn't the strong stuff. I didn't have any morphine on hand. This is basically like a liquid form of ibuprofen—shouldn't knock you out. Though you _should_ sleep."

Sam watched Dean's body relax and wasn't sure if it was due to the pain medication or the reassurance that it wouldn't take him out of the game. He was troubled by how quiet Dean was, but imagined that getting oxygen easily after so long struggling for it was a blessing his brother didn't want to fight.

"You stay still," Cooper ordered, pointing a finger at Dean. "Do not move until that bag is empty, you hear me?"

Dean nodded, rolling his head to look at Sam.

"Now, you," Cooper turned to Sam. "Bet you've got a five alarm headache raging about now, huh?"

"I've had worse," Sam told him honestly, "but it's not fun."

"You want a shot, too?" Cooper asked, hauling his canvass bag over to where Sam was sitting.

"No thanks," Sam said quickly, already anticipating the burn and pull of the needle he knew was going to be required to sew his head back together.

Cooper handed him four pills and a bottle of water. Sam swallowed them, and braced himself.

"This is going to pinch just a bit," Cooper told him. Sam almost rolled his eyes. "But then it should feel better."

"Wha—" Before Sam could finish his question, he realized that the M.E. had given him a shot, just under the surface, near his wound and almost immediately he felt the ache and sting of the broken skin ease.

"What was that?"

"Lidocaine," Cooper replied. "Thought it would help with the stitches."

Sam slid his eyes to meet Dean's. "We are so stocking up on that, man."

Cooper shook his head. "How have you boys survived this long?"

Sam dropped his head back, giving Cooper access to his wound. "Our Dad trained us," he said, hearing his voice slur a bit with exhaustion. "He was a Marine. When our mom died, he made sure we knew how to hunt."

"Hunt?" Cooper asked, tipping the desk light to further illuminate Sam's head.

"Ghosts, banshees, werewolves, vampires, wraiths, kappas, sirens…I mean, you name it. If there's lore about it, it's out there," Sam continued. He glanced up quickly at Cooper's face, trying to assess how the man was assimilating this information.

Cooper's face was set, his eyes trained on his task; he gave nothing up. Even his voice was steady as he asked, "And he told you how to kill all of these things?"

"Yeah," Sam said.

"Who told _him_?"

Sam dropped his eyes, checking on Dean. His brother stared back at him, quietly watching.

"He learned wherever he could—reading, researching, other hunters." Sam shrugged. "He was a survivor."

"But…why?"

"Because a demon took our mom from him," Dean rasped through the mask.

Cooper half-chuckled. "A demon?" He looked back over his shoulder at Dean and something he saw there had him sobering quickly before turning back to Sam. "Really?"

"Really," Sam replied. "Our lives don't make sense to other people, but…." He rolled his neck as Cooper straightened, stitches complete. "We have a job to do."

"Why do _you_ have to do it, though?" Cooper asked, his eyes scanning Sam's battered face.

"'Cause we can," Dean said.

"We know how," Sam echoed. "And we've seen what's out there."

Cooper sighed, rubbing his neck, then started packing up his supplies. "I assume with your father's military training he always went in with a plan?"

Sam exchanged a look with Dean. "More or less."

Cooper arched an eyebrow at Sam. "And what's the plan this time?"

Sam rubbed his forehead gingerly, marveling at how well the lidocaine shot worked to numb the pain in his head. "Well…mostly it involves not dying."

"I like this plan," Cooper said. He looked back over at Dean and the nearly-empty bag of fluid. "I called Sheriff Mead about the cabin and Johnson when I was grabbing supplies. I told him to get one of his men to take the body to the morgue."

"Might want them to move the body someplace else if the bones are there," Sam told him.

Cooper shook his head. "Bones aren't there."

"What?" Dean asked, pushing himself up to an elbow.

Cooper moved closer to ease Dean back down, checking the bag once more. "Mead heard your brother talking about burning them and had his men put them in the jail for safe keeping until they could be identified."

"You _know_ who they are," Dean growled.

"I'll tell you what I _know_," Cooper snapped, keeping his hand on Dean's chest.

Sam stood, making is way over to the exam table, instinctively knowing that he needed to be near Dean.

"I _know_ that Sheriff Mead, William Tolliver, and Mayor Jones put the former sheriff in a nursing home and forgot all about him. Mead as much confessed to that. I know that the man's son was honorably discharged from the Military and promptly disappeared. Mead confirmed that after you left the beachhead. And I know that Sanderson's daughter's body was found in our lake."

Dean pulled the oxygen mask down, shoving Cooper's hand from his chest as he sat up, keeping the blankets around his shoulders. Sam moved around the table to grab his brother's shirts, feeling the urgency in Dean's movement as if it was his own.

"And you don't think that another body in that _same_ lake with _dog tags_ on it could be Colin Sanderson?"

"It's possible," Cooper conceded. "But I won't have _proof_ until I identify the remains."

Dean reached for the IV in his arm and Cooper stopped him.

"What are you doing?" Cooper protested.

Sam glanced at the IV bag, seeing that it was empty. It was no wonder Dean had his third wind, with all of that medicine in his system.

"You want proof?" Dean asked, dropping the blankets, the scars and bruises that traversed his chest standing out on his bare skin in the garish light of the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. He lifted his arms. "Look."

Sam and Cooper blinked at the purple bruises in the shape of fingers on Dean's biceps, similar to the ones that had appeared on Tolliver and Jones. Only…Sam couldn't quite place what was different.

"I saw it—saw what happened. He held me against the wall and I saw it all," Dean said, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. "McAvoy promised Josephine they would hold off blowing the dam until they could convince Wallace that it was all gone—Colin had returned from Iraq to help his sister move Wallace to the old cabin." His gaze pinned Cooper. "You saw that _proof_ in the letter on Tolliver's computer."

Dean looked at Sam, the pain that brimmed the edge of his eyes raw, real.

"Wallace lost it. He killed Josephine—hit her from the looks of it—and held Colin from behind…gripped him so tight Colin couldn't break free." Dean rubbed his face. "And then the water came."

Sam shuddered, unable for a moment to take a breath, horrified at the thought of Dean experiencing Colin's death, remembering the sight of him pinned to the wall.

"I thought Mead said Wallace had a stroke," Cooper said.

Dean shrugged, lifting his eyes. "He was strong enough to keep Colin from moving, that's all I know."

And then it hit Sam—the difference in the bruising. It was the direction of the fingers. He gently turned Dean's arm, looking closer. The bruises on Dean's skin were from someone holding him against the wall, standing in front of him and forcing him to bear witness. The bruises on Tolliver had been from behind, as if someone had wrapped around him and held him in place.

"So…_Wallace_ killed these men?" Sam asked, circling back to Dean's earlier statement.

"I saw him," Dean whispered, looking away, his jaw muscle bouncing with memory. "In the lake. Just before you pulled me out. He was…like…darkness."

Sam closed his eyes. "And then again in the cabin," he said, remembering.

"Colin and Josephine…," Dean looked at Sam, then at Cooper. "They might have been the only thing keeping Wallace from taking apart this whole town."

Cooper dragged a hand down his face. "This is…I just can't—"

Before Cooper could finish his declaration of disbelief a muted cry wafted up through the air vents, causing all of them to turn in confusion, looking around.

"It's coming from below," Cooper said.

"The morgue?" Sam guessed.

The cry came again and this time they heard _get me out…please, oh, please, God…get me out!_

"Wait," Sam frowned. "I know that voice."

"It's Marshall," Cooper said, grabbing his cell phone and heading through the door.

Sam ducked into the side room he'd seen Cooper go earlier and grabbed Dean's clothes from the dryer. Returning, he handed Dean his T-shirt, flannel, and the dark hoodie he'd borrowed from Sam. Dean pulled the IV from his arm, grabbing a tissue and pressing it against the small, bright spot of blood, then pulled on the clothes. He slid from the table looking at Sam.

"Didn't Mead lock Marshall up?"

Sam nodded. "But the jail is connected to the morgue."

"And that's where the bones are," he said, grabbing the duffle. "What do we have left?"

"Your Colt, the Beretta, both out of ammo," Sam reported. "Shotgun with six rounds left. Gas can half full of salt."

Dean nodded, handing Sam the shotgun. "Stuff the rounds in your pocket. You keep those bastards off me."

"Wait. What are you going to do?"

"Cremate them," Dean said, determination shining in his too-bright eyes, fever coloring his pale, bruised face.

"I got your back," Sam nodded, and following his brother down the hall toward the stairs leading to the morgue.

www

Dean felt detached, as if his mind were outside his body, going through the motions, ordering him function, but not really feeling any of it. He didn't know if it was a result of the pain meds, the fever, or exhaustion, but he used it.

He blocked out everything but the job, focusing on his next step, their next move.

He needed to get this done and get Sam the hell out of there. He needed the familiarity of their home around him. He needed to ground himself in their version of reality, or he might slip his body completely and not worry about coming back.

They made their way down the steps of the morgue, the overhead fluorescent lights casting a medicinal glow over the pale, frozen body of Officer Johnson. Dean spared him a glance, feeling a stab of remorse that another innocent person had been caught up in a battle that had nothing to do with him.

"I don't see an incinerator," Sam remarked.

"I don't see Cooper either," Dean replied. "I figured he was calling Mead."

"Yeah, me, too."

Sam moved around him and led the way through a windowless door that led them to a long hall of metal doors, each looking like the front of a refrigerator. The door closed and sealed behind them. Directly across from them was another windowless door.

"Creepy." Sam remarked.

"I think this is, uh…where they store them." Dean rubbed his hand across his bottom lip.

"Oh, right," Sam nodded. "Think that's the door to the incinerator down there?"

Dean moved down the length of the hall to a door with a circular porthole window at the top. He peered through the window and nodded. "I see a big-assed oven. And I think some kind of generator or something. Coop's already got the oven fired up."

"He in there?" Sam asked, starting toward him.

Dean shook his head, turning. Just then he heard another scream for help and this time, Dean picked up on something else—something behind the begging.

Water.

"Oh, shit," he breathed, pushing past Sam and heading for the second door.

He wrenched it open and saw that across the length of the room, several pipes in the walls had been pulled through the tile, showering the space with a heavy spray of water. It was empty of furniture; only three cells flanked one wall, each cell holding a toilet and a cot. The toilets were bubbling over, water spilling along the floor.

Marshall was in the middle cell and a stretcher bearing a black body bag with what Dean could only assume were the bones of Colin and Wallace Sanderson was in the cell closest to them. Across the room, near yet another door with a glass porthole, Cooper lay slumped to the floor, water pooling up around his face.

"Oh, thank God! Get me outta here!" Marshall screamed the moment he saw them.

"Shut the hell up," Dean bellowed, splashing into the room and heading directly toward Cooper. He heard Sam behind him as he bent over the unconscious M.E., turning the man's face out of the inch of water and checking his pulse. "He's alive," he called out to Sam.

He shifted Cooper so that he was in no danger of falling back into the water, and kept a hand on him, reassured by the rise and fall of the man's chest.

"Where's Mead?" Sam demanded.

"Went for the keys," Marshall informed him.

Dean looked over his shoulder at his brother and saw him roll his eyes. "He didn't have them _on_ him?" Sam asked.

"How the hell should I know!" Marshall squeaked. "Just get me outta here!"

"Relax," Sam ordered. "You're not gonna drown; the water isn't filling up that fast."

"I ain't worried about the water," Marshall said, pressing his back against the bars furthest from the body bag. "I don't want to be here when he comes back!"

"Who?" Sam and Dean asked together.

"That creepy-assed…old guy!"

Dean looked at Sam. "Colin," he declared, knowing Marshall had seen what Dean had mistaken as a Reaper.

Sam nodded in agreement, looking at Marshall. "Where did the old guy go?"

Marshall just shook his head, staring with terrified eyes at the body bag. Dean felt something inside of him snap and he stood up, stormed over to the cell, water splashing up around the ankles of his boots, and grabbed the shotgun from Sam. He pointed it directly at Marshall.

"Listen, asshole," Dean growled, chambering a round. "I haven't slept in three days. I'm coughing my lungs out. And I've nearly been drowned twice since I got to this craphole of a town. I'm about to set a new standard for not to be fucked with, you got it?"

Marshall nodded, his mouth hanging limp, his eyes round.

"Now, my brother asked you a question."

Marshall pointed out through the door leading from the jail room to another part of the underground maze. "He went that w-way…after—after Mead."

"Shit," Sam cursed.

Dean dropped the barrel of the shotgun from Marshall to the door and blew away the lock. Marshall yelped and jumped back, tripping over the cot and landing in the rising water with a splash.

"Get up," Dean ordered, feeling a cough build low in his throat and desperate to skip the pain of releasing it. "Get Cooper and get out of here."

Marshall pulled himself up and started toward the opened jail door.

"You get him someplace safe, you got it?" Dean growled.

Marshall nodded rapidly, moving toward the unconscious man and lifting him. Cooper started to come around. Dean turned and blasted open the door of the other cell. He tossed the shotgun to Sam who immediately reloaded it.

"I s-saw him," Cooper said, his voice weak. "He just…threw me…like I was nothing."

"You're gonna be okay," Dean told him. "Marshall will get you out of here."

"Boys…you boys be careful," Cooper implored as Marshall helped him to the door, tugging it open against the flow of the rising water.

Dean looked at Sam. "I think we gotta split up."

"I know," Sam nodded, his lips pressed together.

Dean saw an unspoken fear lingering in his brother's eyes. "You'll be fine," he reassured him.

"It's not me I'm worried about right now," Sam told him, sniffing. "I'll go after Mead. You get rid of them." He gestured to the body bag.

Dean nodded, taking his brother in, memorizing his face, the look in his eyes, the power in his stance. He didn't like the feeling washing over him, soaking into him just like the water that started to gather around his ankles.

The feeling that he wasn't going to see his brother again.

"No," Dean shook his head quickly, decisively. "Stay together, stay alive, right?"

Sam frowned. "But…what about Mead?"

Dean pressed his lips tight. "He's either already dead…or we save him by ending this."

Sam moved quickly toward him and Dean caught the relief erasing the tears in his brother's eyes. They grabbed either end of the stretcher and shoved it toward the door leading to the storage hall and incinerator. As they reached it, however, the water suddenly surged, pressing against the door, rising rapidly as the toilets burst upward and the pipes sprayed with the force of a fire hose.

"Son of a _bitch_!" Dean cried as their clothing became soaked.

"Dean look!" Sam cried out pointing toward the door where they'd found Cooper.

A dark, wet figure, like malleable oil, rolled up from the gathering water—faceless but with spreading arms. It reached for them and Sam fired, instinctively.

"Again!" Dean yelled, pulling on the door, putting all of his strength into parting the water to allow their escape. "Shoot it, Sam!"

Sam fired. Reloaded. Fired again.

With the third hit the figure scattered and the surge of water weakened. Dean continued to pull, his arms shaking, his face tense. Suddenly, he felt a force from the other side push the door toward him, opening it and spilling the water from the jail into the hall of storage drawers.

"Marshall?" Sam yelped.

"Coop's got Mead and he's messed up, man," Marshall told them, pulling the stretcher toward him and out of the way.

"Mead's alive?" Dean shouted.

Marshall nodded. "Coop's turning off the main water valve," he told them. "There's a system of drains through the whole town that leads back to the lake. Someone shut them off."

"No shit," Dean spat, pushing Sam through the door and following behind. "How come you came back?"

Marshall lifted a shoulder. "Cooper said that if I helped you…you'd leave."

"Unbelievable," Sam shook his head, making his way to the incinerator door. "After all of this, you just want us gone?"

"That's what I've been sayin', ain't it?"

Dean pushed the stretcher toward the door Sam held open. "You're consistent, I'll give you that."

"So all we gotta do is burn these bones?" Marshall asked.

Dean saw Sam's face fall as he looked toward the incinerator. "Something tells me it's not going to be that easy."

www

The room with the incinerator was overly-warm, a window in the metal oven lit with bluish-orange flames. The generator Dean had seen was large and positioned near another door which no doubt led to another room in this underground labyrinth New Lethe's creators had set up.

Sam felt his wet hair begin to dry and curl from the heat. He glanced over at Dean and watched his brother fold his lips in, his eyes darting to the door of the incinerator, his face tight. And Sam knew why.

Colin stood in the center of the room, staring out at them with an unreadable expression.

Sam was relieved to see the face of the man who had saved him from a vicious beating and not the horrific countenance he'd glimpsed in the cabin—the face he was sure Dean had thought was a Reaper. Somehow, it made it easier to step forward, working to distract the former soldier from Dean as his brother pushed the stretcher off to the side, toward the incinerator.

"Colin," Sam said. "We know it was your father."

"I tried to save them," Colin said, his hands handing open at his sides, his eyes sad. "I tried to stop it."

"I know," Sam said, taking a step closer, pulling Colin's focus away from the three of them and turning it just to him.

"No, you don't," Colin shook his head.

Sam heard Dean pull down the zipper, catching the sight out of the corner of his eyes as Dean turned his face into his shoulder, covering his nose and mouth as a wet, rotting stench of death and lake weed escaped the bag of bones. Marshall gagged, turning away and facing the door. Ignoring him, Dean twisted the cap of the gas can and looked up at his brother before he started pouring the salt over the bones.

"I know if everyone had just left you alone, you might've been able to keep him under control," Sam said, lowering his weapon completely, the barrel pointed down.

Colin nodded, his eyes trained fully on Sam. Dean began to pour the salt.

"I know they broke their promise," Sam continued.

"They did," Colin said. And without warning, he was standing near Dean, across the stretcher that held his bones. "And now all bets are off."

Sam gasped, turned, and brought the shotgun up. Before he could fire, however, Colin thrust back his hand, sending Sam across the room, crashing against the side of the incinerator and rolling away, across the floor. He blinked, his vision blurring, the shotgun no longer in his grip. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled, his head spun, and his body gave in.

With a soft exhale of fear, Sam felt himself sink into a very dark, very deep hole.

www

The moment Sam hit the ground, his body going limp, Dean felt something explode behind his eyes. A lightning flash of anger erased all caution or sympathy and he was ready to kill.

"Oh, you son of bitch."

He lifted the gas can, throwing the remaining salt directly at Colin's face, watching with satisfaction as the image disintegrated.

Dean shoved the stretcher toward the incinerator door and dove for the shotgun Sam had dropped. Grabbing it he rolled to his back, chambering a round and pointing the barrel at nothing. Marshall whimpered in the corner near the door they came in. Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Sam laying still, his eyes closed.

"Marshall!" Dean yelled, his voice a ragged sound bleeding through the heat that filled the room. "The bones!"

"What about them?" Marshall asked, not moving from his protective crouch.

"Shove them in the incinerator!"

"No friggin' way!" Marshal shook his head, looking wildly around the room. "I'm not getting thrown across the room."

"I'll cover you," Dean promised, reaching back to put a hand on Sam, checking for his pulse, reassuring himself that the ghost hadn't broken his neck with that fall. Sam stirred under his touch.

"_You_ do it!" Marshall yelled back.

"Grow some balls, man!" Dean growled. "You want us gone? Then get the hell up and burn these goddamn bones!"

Marshall's lip curled up at Dean in protest, but he stood and hurried to the heavy door of the incinerator. Dean climbed to his knees next to Sam, keeping the shotgun pointed at the air around Marshall as the big man used the edge of his coat to protect his hand from the heat of the metal handle. Throwing the latch, Marshall opened the door and Dean felt the temperature of the room rise exponentially, his clothes drying, his eyes watering from the heat.

Sam groaned and Dean put his hand gently on the back of his brother's head.

"Easy, Sammy."

"What'd I hit?" Sam moaned, pushing himself up so that he sat with his head hanging low, his forehead cradled in his hands. Dean slid his hand down to Sam's shoulder, helping his brother catch his balance.

"Nothing much. Just an incinerator." Dean gestured toward Marshall as the man began to clumsily shove the stretcher forward.

"Damn," Sam practically moaned, squinting around the obvious pain in his head.

The scream that suddenly tore through the small, hot room was an echo of the one that had shaken Dean to his soul inside the cabin. He let go of Sam and gripped the shotgun with two hands, standing slowly as he scanned the room for the darkness he knew would soon follow.

A groan, like that of a dying lion, echoed at once inside of him and all around him.

Dean shifted, stepping back as he turned, his eyes wide in the dancing light of the incinerator's flames. He saw Marshall on the floor, away from the incinerator, covering his head. He looked down and saw Sam staring around as well, so he knew he hadn't imagined the sound.

A wordless cry shook through the room, a supernatural Doppler Effect that had him turning, following the sound with the barrel of the shotgun.

And then the dark formed from a corner of the room, somehow, impossibly, beating back the light from the flame, finger-like tendrils growing thicker the faster it moved. It ate up the room, creaking like the joints of an old door, rolling as if it were made of the sinew and muscle of a living thing until it swarmed over Marshall, cloaking the stretcher bearing the bones.

Dean stood still, unable to draw a full breath, unable to move to defend himself as the darkness drew closer, reaching for him, calling for him.

And then it began to climb Sam's body. Sam cried out in horror, backing away as the darkness coiled up his outstretched legs, climbed his chest, and reached for his throat.

"NO!" Dean bellowed, firing into nothing, beating it back from Sam.

He fired again in a different direction, simply hoping he wasn't hitting Marshal—if Marshall was still alive—with his hap-hazard aim. The dark recoiled, pulling up, but not retreating.

"Don't you _touch_ him," Dean snarled, reaching down and grabbing the last two shells from Sam's pocket, and slid them into the barrel. "You can take your lake," Dean said, firing again, pushing the darkness back, "and shove it up your—"

The dark reached out and grabbed him, wrapping around him like a whip, pulling him close as if in embrace. He heard Sam shout his name and then there was nothing but a feeling of complete emptiness. It pulled at him, bending him, taking him low. He couldn't breathe, his damaged lungs no match for the power tightening its grip. He couldn't see; the black surrounding him was utterly complete. He couldn't hear anything but the eerie _shushing_ of his body being pulled against his will along the cement floor.

The darkness tugged on his strength as if feeding, dragging him forward until his arms crashed into something immovable.

Something metal.

_The stretcher._

Drawing a burst of strength from a light inside of him that he rarely paid heed to, Dean fought the pull of the dark; he reached up and shoved the stretcher with all of his might until he heard the dull _clang_ as it hit the side of the incinerator, the bag of bones shifting slightly until it was half-way tipped into the flame.

A shriek echoed through the small room and Dean saw the crackle of power dance in the dark, felt it pulling back, falling away. He tried to push himself up, but found his reserves depleted, his body shaking from the effort of fighting back.

And then he saw Sam.

His brother was at the incinerator, shoving the bag further into the flame. The dark reached for him, an arm-shaped grasp of desperation. Dean fired the last round from the floor, blasting rock salt across the front of the incinerator. The dark faded like smoke and Sam used his coat-insulated arms to slam the door closed.

The flames inside spiked up high as the fire took the bones, purified by salt. From his vantage point on the floor Dean saw the darkness withdraw completely until there was nothing but firelight and the shadows it tossed against the walls.

He tried to once more to at least sit up, but his arms gave beneath him and he lay spent, gasping for breath, his body at its limit. As Sam sank to his knees next to him, panting from exertion, Dean saw a set of dog tags on the ground, directly in his eye line.

"Sam," he whispered, lacking the strength for anything louder.

But Sam saw them.

Dean watched his brother reach for the dog tags, watched Sam's fingers slide through them, watched them fade as the flames receded in the incinerator window, the bones now nothing but ash.

"It's done," Sam said softly. "It's over."

And Dean closed his eyes, allowing himself surrender at last to darkness.

www

"It's over?" Marshall bleated from his cowered position.

Sam ignored him, reaching for Dean's face, turning it carefully. His brother's skin was hot, but he couldn't tell how much was from the room and how much was fever.

"Dean?" He encouraged softly, patting Dean's cheek gently, trying to bring him around.

"Is he dead?"

Sam jerked his gaze over. "No!"

Marshall was on his knees, looking at them like a giant child.

"Go get Cooper," Sam ordered, gathering Dean up in a loose grasp of heavy limbs, holding him awkwardly against his chest. "Tell him we need help."

"Cooper's with Sheriff Mead," Marshall reminded him unnecessarily.

"Just get him!" Sam snapped, his patience gone.

His body ached, his head hurt, and he was so tired he wasn't sure he could stand—there was no way he was going to get Dean out of this room on his own.

"I…I can help you," Marshall offered. "Get him upstairs at least."

Sam blinked at him. "I thought you wanted us gone."

"I do," Marshall said. "But you're not going far if you can't get out of this room."

Sam nodded, trying to remind himself that the man had just witnessed something most people would never see.

"Thanks," Sam said.

Marshall stood and made his way over to them. He crouched gently lifting Dean from Sam's grasp as though he were transporting a sleeping child back to bed. His head hung back over the edge of Marshall's arm. Sam's mind slid over the fact that earlier that same day, Dean had knocked this man unconscious to stop him from beating Sam into submission.

Watching the big man carry his brother now, Sam felt his heart hurt that their lives were filled with such irony. He picked up the empty shotgun, pushed to his feet and followed Marshall, his stride wavering with exhaustion, his sight blurry from pain. They moved from the incinerator room and down the hall of storage lockers, the floor still wet from the flood in the jail.

As they made their way through the morgue, Dean's arms and legs swinging loosely in the big man's grip, Sam made himself look away from Officer Johnson's body. There was nothing they could have done to prevent the man's death, but it didn't make the sting of his loss in this fight any less potent. He followed Marshall up the back stairs to Cooper's offices.

Marshall headed to the room where Dean and Sam had napped earlier that day and carefully laid Dean on one of the couches.

"Thanks," Sam said again.

He felt himself swaying with fatigue. He couldn't even think of what he should say next, let alone do.

"Take that couch," Marshall said, putting a hand on Sam's arm in a surprisingly simple gesture of care. "I'll tell Cooper…. Hell, I don't know. Something."

Sam nodded numbly, dropping to the couch as if his legs had suddenly disappeared. He glanced once at Dean, his mind misfiring on all of the things they were supposed to do when the hunt was over. He was asleep before he'd figured out how to complete a thought.

"Sam. C'mon, open your eyes. Need you to wake up, now."

The voice was insistent, irritating.

And not Dean's.

Sam blinked to consciousness, surprised by the sunlight streaming through the window above the other couch. He peered with narrowed eyes at the person leaning over him; it took him a moment to place him in his memory, so foggy was his brain.

"Cooper?" He asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"Hey, kid," Cooper nodded, a bruise on his cheekbone evidence of his part in last night's battle. "Sorry to wake you—Lord knows you two need your sleep."

Sam felt the last several days catch up with him in a rush, pushing him forward into a sitting position. He rubbed his head gingerly; his entire body felt wrung out, hollow, bruised, but his head was throbbing.

"Guh," he muttered, holding the sides of his face, trying to keep his head fixed firmly to his shoulders. He glanced over, instinctively looking for Dean, and was surprised to find the other couch empty.

"Where's Dean?"

"I woke him first," Cooper told him. "His fever…it spiked up pretty high. I had to give him some more meds."

Sam looked over. "Is he okay?"

"No," Cooper shook his head, "but that's not the biggest problem right now."

"What do you mean?"

Cooper put a hand at his elbow, encouraging him to stand, balancing him once he did.

"Matthew found the fax—in my jacket," Cooper told him.

"Fax?" Sam asked, confused, his head swimming with the change in altitude. He let Cooper lead him toward the exam room.

"The one from that Agent," Cooper clarified. "Sheriff Mead found it this morning when we were…um…cleaning up."

"Oh, shit," Sam breathed, sitting in the chair he'd occupied last night. Now he remembered why he'd felt there was something they needed to do after the hunt last night: Hendrickson. The man was not giving up.

He looked up to see Dean situated much as he had been the previous afternoon: IV, oxygen mask, blankets. Only this time his eyes were closed.

This time he wasn't looking at Sam.

"How much time do we have?" Sam asked, trying to focus.

He took the ibuprofen and water that Cooper handed to him, swallowing it gratefully. Next, Cooper handed him a thick, porcelain bowl filled with oatmeal, dried cranberries, and nuts.

"Eat," Cooper ordered. "I made your brother eat something, too. He's…a bit stubborn."

"Tell me something I don't know," Sam said around a mouthful of oatmeal.

Cooper sighed, hitching a hip on the edge of his desk, sighing tiredly. Sam wondered fleetingly if the man had slept.

"Mead is putting Johnson's death on you two."

Sam resisted rolling his eyes only to save himself the headache.

"He saw the fax and called this Hendrickson fella who apparently gave him an earful."

"So why aren't we in jail now?" Sam asked. "Other than the fact that it's pretty much destroyed."

Cooper tilted his head, pushing out his lips as he regarded Sam. "Seems like you have a new fan."

"A what?" Sam asked, scraping the bowl clean and washing down the oatmeal with the rest of his water.

"Marshall told Mead he'd seen you heading out West of town after the shit hit the fan."

Sam blinked. "Wait…_Marshall_?"

Cooper nodded.

"Didn't see that coming," Sam muttered in amazement.

"So, I figure we got about three hours to get you out of town, unbury your car, and get you heading East before Mead gets wise and calls this…Hendrickson guy."

"How do you figure that?"

"'Cause the place he told them you went? Is about an hour and a half from here."

Sam nodded, taking a breath and looking at Dean. "He's not doing too good, is he?"

Cooper shook his head. "Like I said, you both should be checked out at a hospital. And I'd like your brother on IV antibiotics and fluids for at least two more days."

"We can't go to a hospital," Sam sighed, swallowing hard. "Not now."

"I know." Cooper handed him the canvass bag. "I packed you a med kit. And Mandy gave you some food for the road. You should be set for awhile if we can get you out of here."

"What if these don't work?" Sam asked quietly, looking down into the bag, then up at his brother.

Cooper was quiet for a moment, his voice torn with suppressed emotion when he finally spoke. "Listen, I want to do more. I want to help you. But…your lives, they—"

"Hey, it's okay," Sam said, raising a hand to stop Cooper's speech, not ready to hear the truth quite yet. The truth that they were once again on their own, tasked with bearing the burden of their own fragility, despite the reasons they were broken in the first place. "We're used to taking care of ourselves. It's okay, really."

He tried to offer Cooper a smile, but felt the edges of it tremble.

"I'd just draw more attention to you if I left," Cooper said. "The best way to protect you is…to get you out of here."

_Alone_. Sam nodded, setting the bag on the chair hand moving over to Dean.

Dean woke with a jerk when Sam touched his shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy. When he reaching up with a clumsy hand and to pull the mask from his face, Sam saw his lips were chapped and pale.

"Sammy. You okay?" Dean asked in a painfully gruff, tight voice.

"I'm okay," Sam answered as truthfully as he could. "Cooper tell you?"

Dean nodded, pushing the blanket away. He allowed Cooper to remove the IV and took his coats from Sam, pulling them on with agonizing slowness. Sam saw the energy drain from his brother's face the longer he stood there. His skin was pale, his eyes shadowed, his breathing shallow.

But when he looked up at Sam, his expression was determined.

"Let's go get my baby," he said.

Cooper frowned at Sam in question. Sam waved a hand at him.

"You don't want to know."

Dean slumped against him as they road three abreast in the truck, Sam's long legs tucked sideways next to Dean's to avoid the gear shift. Sam felt gritty and tired. He knew under his layers of clothes he had to be pretty ripe after three days without a shower. Dean coughed weakly next to him, his shoulder rubbing Sam's as his body jerked slightly. His brother exuded heat. Sam could smell it rolling off of him, the dryer-sheet perfume of his clothes unable to mask the scent of sickness.

The five miles that had taken hours to walk two days ago were traveled in minutes. The snow had retreated slightly with the warmth of the sun, leaving exposed wheel ruts on the sparsely-traveled road. The landscape was quiet and cold; the sun turning the miles of unbroken snow into diamonds.

"There she is," Sam called out, spying the black roof of the Impala tucked up against a mound of slowly melting snow near the tree line.

"You sure did a number on her, didn't you?" Cooper commented.

"We didn't hit the trees," Dean pointed out.

"So I see," Cooper climbed out, drawing the cable from the winch to the front axle of the Impala. He returned to the truck. "One of you is going to need to get in there and steer."

"I will," Dean said, digging the keys from his jeans pocket.

"Dean," Sam said softly, holding his hand out. "I got this, okay?"

Dean lifted his eyes and Sam felt something shift inside of him at the look of pained helplessness swimming in his brother's gaze. He swallowed, not knowing what to say that would erase that expression; he had a feeling that nothing would help at this point—nothing except getting back on the road, and getting Dean well.

Dean reluctantly dropped the keys into Sam's open hand. Sliding across the seat, Sam trudged through the thick snow, unlocking the car and readying himself for Cooper to retract the winch.

The Impala skidded and slipped, tires fighting for traction, but soon Sam felt the car jerk, catching and move forward until it was nearly kissing the front of Cooper's truck. Sam got out, pulling his collar up in deference to the bite of the day. Strangely, as he stood waiting for Cooper to unhook the winch, he realized he could hear the _skritch_ of a squirrel, the pierce of a hawk's cry.

Life had returned to the woods surrounding New Lethe.

The cable retracted, Cooper grabbed the jumper cables from the back of the truck and flipped his hood up. Sam did the same with the Impala, only noticing Dean's quiet presence next to him the moment he leaned over to clip the cables to the Impala's battery.

"Black on black," Dean said, his voice so thin it wasn't his own.

"I know," Sam replied, fixing the copper alligator clips to the battery mounts.

"Rev her slow, Sam," Dean instructed.

"I've done this before, y'know," Sam snapped, tiredly.

"Not on my baby you haven't," Dean replied, bracing himself against the car as a cough hit him.

"Dean—" Sam started to fire back, but saw Dean straighten slowly, one hand weakly gripping the roof of the Impala for balance, the other wiping a small smear of crimson from his lips. Biting the inside of his cheek, Sam kept quiet, revving the engine slow, just as Dean instructed.

After a moment of the engine gathering juice from Cooper's truck, Sam climbed out and unhooked the cables, handing them back to Cooper and closing the hood. He reached out a hand. Cooper put the straps of the canvass bag in it, carrying the duffle around to the back seat of the Impala and tossing it in.

Sam set the bag of supplies next to it and looked back up at the M.E.

"I was trying to say goodbye," Sam told him.

"Don't much care for goodbyes," Cooper said. "'Sides…you two basically managed to turn my world sideways. So, uh, yeah. Thanks for that."

"Appreciate all you've done for us," Dean said, swallowing and clearing his throat in an effort to keep another cough at bay.

"You take those meds, you hear?" Cooper pointed at him. "I don't want to hear about you dying by the side of the road somewhere."

Sam saw Dean's sad half-grin. "Believe me," Dean sighed, moving around the back of the Impala to climb in the passenger side. "When we die, it'll barely be a blip on the radar."

Sam frowned at that, looking down as Dean shut the door. He glanced up at Cooper. "Don't mind him," he offered. "He's tired and—"

"And sick and on the run for something he didn't do and he just saved the asses of a bunch of people who will never know about it," Cooper finished. He looked at Sam. "You both did."

Sam shrugged. "It's our job."

"Kind of a sucky job, kid," Cooper said, sighing. He looked back over his shoulder toward New Lethe. "You better get going. Stop as soon as you can. Hide out and rest. You need it. I'm just sorry—"

He didn't finish. Looking down, he raised a hand at Sam and moved toward his truck.

Sam tossed Cooper a salute and climbed behind the wheel, watching as Cooper backed up and turned around on the tight road toward New Lethe. Sam sighed, throwing the gear into reverse and doing the same until they were heading back the way they came two nights ago.

"East, right?" Sam said, looking over at Dean, frowning when he saw his brother huddled against the door, arms wrapped around himself.

He turned the heat up, needing to do something to alleviate Dean's discomfort. They'd lost their extra blankets when Dean fell through the ice. There wasn't much else he could do to stop his brother's weak shivers until they found a motel.

A motel far enough off the grid and away from New Lethe that Hendrickson wouldn't find them.

"'S what the man said," Dean replied. "Don't think it's gonna matter all that much."

"Why? What do you mean?"

Dean coughed, then rolled his head along the seat to look at Sam with fever-bright eyes. "Hendrickson's gonna find us. And when he does…it's not going to be pretty."

Sam pressed the accelerator down as they reached a crossroads, turning left and gripping the wheel tightly. "Maybe," he conceded. "But it's not going to be today."

Dean closed his eyes and Sam took a shaky breath, more scared in this moment than he had been when the darkness filled the incinerator room. He was hurting, his head pounding, his body aching. And Dean was just this side of fading completely.

They were walking wounded. And they were on their own. Again. Fighting to survive their real life was more terrifying than surviving a fight with the dead.

"We're gonna be okay, Dean," he said out loud, needing to hear the words.

Dean's rattling breath was his only answer.

* * *

**a/n: **One chapter left to go—and some parts in this next one that my heart simply had to see on paper. Always need the comfort to go with the hurt…otherwise there's not much point, is there? And right now, both brothers need some TLC. And there are always final questions to answer.

I look forward to your thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Chapter 1.

**a/n: This author's note is ridiculously long. Apologies up front.**

We've come to the final chapter! Thank you all so much for returning to finish out the story with me; the hunt may have been over, but the story wasn't complete. At least not for me.

Those of you who wanted to wait until the story was done (assuming you came back *smiles*) I hope the wait was worth it. A special thank you to those of you who took time to leave me a review or comment; your words are gold to me and a reward for the time spent working out this story.

There are always people who help us reach our destinations. My wonderful friend **thruterryseyes** has patiently provided a sanity check for each chapter—often times reading 50 pages in a few hours to help me meet self-imposed deadlines. Not only that, but she's created beautiful posters for each chapter. I'll be setting up a Master Post of this story on LiveJournal so that each piece of art is captured and can be enjoyed. Thank you so much for sharing your talent with us, Terry.

This story was written because one person knew I needed to do it. She _claimed_ it was for her—that she wanted to request a story from one of the earlier seasons—but I think it was _really_ because she knew I needed one more long story fix. **Caroline**, you are a brilliant writer, gorgeous person, and dear friend. You have done amazing things so far in your life and I know you will make the world more beautiful through your current efforts. Thank you for poking me into writing one more long fic. And thank you for allowing me to follow my muse.

With that extra bit of rambling, I give you the final chapter—a way for me to bridge the gap between impact and meaning when it comes to pain. I've talked to many of you about why we like to put our heroes through these trials by fire and the thing that I've come to realize is that—for me—it's simply seeing them heroically emerge on the other side. Changed, scarred, damaged to varying extents, but still standing.

I can do nothing to stop the pain many of the people in my real life feel, but in _this_ world, through _these_ characters, I can create it, experience it, survive it, and end it.

I hope you enjoy.

* * *

_And I understand  
These winds and tides  
This change of times  
Won't drag you away  
Hold on, and hold on tightly  
Hold on, and don't let go_

_~ Drowning Man_ by U2

www

The Impala was a heavy machine.

Her powerful Chevy motor had carried them across endless miles of road. She'd been broken and rebuilt, offered them shelter and protection, and had stood her ground as the one constant in their lives.

And Dean could sense all of that coming to an end.

He felt her floating across the pavement, the grip of his hands doing little to assuage the panic shaking through him as she lost traction for a moment before cleaving once more to the road. Everything that mattered was in this car with him, in this moment with him.

_Everything_.

The blare of sirens beating in time with the red and blue flashing lights glinting off the rear- and side-view mirrors tattooed their fate across his vision: Hendrickson had found them and this time they weren't slipping away. He didn't dare tear his gaze from the road ahead of him to look askance at Sam, though he wanted to. He had so many things he needed to say.

_We tried._

_You did good._

_I'm sorry._

Ahead of him were two police cars creating a blockade and several officers with weapons drawn positioned behind it; behind him were two more police cars, gaining quickly. He'd tried to out-run them; banking on the power of the Impala to slip free of this net, needing her to be the good-luck charm she'd been so many times before.

But their luck had run out.

The Impala's tires hit the speed spikes that had apparently been rolled out as a deterrent to continue the chase. Dean gripped the wheel tighter, an automatic reaction and a desperate attempt to keep them on the road and in one piece. But the laws of physics were too great even for a Winchester to combat.

He felt the car kick sideways, rolling to her passenger side and sending him slamming against Sam, crushing his brother against the door. His equilibrium toyed with his vision as they rolled, gravity becoming irrelevant. Arms flopped, legs collided, back hit chest and chest smacked dashboard as the Impala continued to roll.

Dean lost his air, unable to draw it back again as the world spun in slow-motion around him. When the car came to a rest—on her roof—the engine was still revving, unwilling to give up, unwilling to give in.

Everything hurt; he couldn't move, he couldn't blink, he couldn't breathe.

His eyes desperately searched for Sam—needing to see him before they came, before they pulled him away and ended this life forever. He tried to turn his head, but felt trapped, pinned. He reached out with his left hand—the only thing he could manage to move—and _willed_ Sam to reach back.

He'd know it was Sam and not someone else coming to take him away. He'd know.

"Dean."

He heard him, then. Sam was alive. And near. He stretched his hand, wanting to order his brother to grab it—pull him free. Get them out of this. Escape one last time.

But he couldn't speak.

"Dean!"

_I'm here, Sammy. See me? I'm right here._

"Hey, c'mon, man. Open your eyes."

He hadn't realized they were closed. Obeying, he opened them and blinked in confusion. He was in the Impala, but she was upright, intact, and still. No desperately revving motor, no crushed interior.

Just daylight, Sam…and pain.

Dean blinked again, rolling his eyes down to his chest where he felt the most pressure. Sam had one hand resting lightly there, not enough to cause the wicked stab of pain he felt cutting across his ribs, preventing him from taking a full breath. Sam's other hand was gripping Dean's left, both sets of knuckles white from the hold they had on each other.

"Easy," Sam said, his voice low, gentle, as if talking to a wounded animal.

Dean swallowed, working to take in air, finding that simple, automatic task terrifyingly difficult. He turned to meet his brother's eyes, slightly shocked to see how battered Sam's face was. Confused, disoriented, and weaker than he could remember being in a long time, Dean fought to draw words to the surface, searching for reason in the chaos of sensations.

"You were dreaming," Sam supplied at the behest of Dean's wordless croak. "From the sound of it…pretty nasty one."

_Dreaming_.

Dean continued to blink at his brother, trying to weave together meaning. The police barricade, Hendrickson finding them—none of it was real. They hadn't rolled the Impala, they hadn't crashed…but then why did he hurt so much? And why was he freezing?

"I had to pull over," Sam continued. "We're only like an hour and a half out of Lethe, but…."

Sam pulled his hand away from Dean's chest and Dean nearly tipped forward into the space it had occupied. Slowly, Dean released his grip on Sam's hand, retracting it with uncertainty. He felt off-balance, too-light. As if without Sam anchoring him, he'd slide off the Impala's seat and into nothing. He took the bottle of water Sam offered and cooled the fire in his throat.

Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Sam sighed. "I couldn't get you to wake up," he told Dean; his eyes closed, his voice dampened with weariness. "And I need some aspirin."

"Wh—" Dean tried, but was forced to stop, the stabbing in his chest choked off by the unbelievable urge to cough. He instinctively worked to resist, but his body betrayed him. Shoulders shaking, eyes streaming tears, he bent over, catching himself against the seat with his elbow, unable to breathe.

Sam's hand was on his back, not moving, just a weight of familiarity grounding him as the world came painfully back into focus, memory returning with jagged claws that ripped up through his throat, tearing his insides apart. He was suddenly burning up, heat rocketing through him and burning the backs of his eyes. He took a slow, shuddering breath, wiping the tang of blood from his mouth with the back of a shaking hand before forcing himself upright to sag against the passenger door.

He remembered now. All of it. The snow storm, the lake, the darkness….

And for a moment, he almost wished they were in the dream. For a moment, he simply wanted it all to be over.

"You okay?" Sam asked, peering at him through hooded eyes.

Sam was hurting; Dean could see that much even with the fever he felt burning through him, confusing him, and sending him spiraling into too-realistic dreams. Sam held himself carefully, as if his bones were made of glass and one wrong move would shatter him into pieces too small to reconstruct.

It was a look that had started to become familiar in the wake of Sam's visions, but Dean knew that this time it wasn't a vision that pulled his brother's eyes tight and set his mouth in a thin line. It was the course of their lives.

"'M fine," Dean rasped, slightly surprised at how rough his voice sounded in his ears.

"Don't move, okay?" Sam said, resting his hand lightly on Dean's shoulder. "I'm just going to get some stuff out of the trunk."

Dean watched Sam slide backwards out of the car, a blast of mid-day winter chill swirling inside the car as he opened the door. Burrowing deeply into his sweatshirt, Dean tried to still the fever-hungry shivers that took control of his muscles. He couldn't seem to stop shaking—it felt as if it had been going on for hours. His body was weary from the effort.

He leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the side window, drinking in the relief to the heat of his skin, even as he knew it would make his chills worsen. He tried to remember the last time he'd been this low.

_Nebraska. The rawhead_.

Even after that cabin in Missouri he hadn't felt as weak. That had been a different kind of pain; a sharp, vicious bite inside of him, a nameless hurt from seeing the yellow eyes of a demon caught in his father's face.

He remembered the cab ride from the hospital to find Sam after he'd been handed a death sentence back in Nebraska. Before Roy LaGrange. Before the miracle.

He'd remembered the feeling of resignation, the helpless acceptance of the weakness that had overtaken a body he once thought capable of withstanding almost anything. He'd barely had the strength to flag the cab and mutter directions to where Sam had been staying.

He remembered the feel of the cold vinyl seat, the buckle digging into the base of his spine, too exhausted to shift it out of the way. He remembered the stale smell of people and tobacco, the cool of the window against his forehead, the constant murmuring of the cabdriver into his cell phone.

The surprise on Sam's face when he'd opened that door had been the only thing that had kept him from falling face-first to the motel room floor. He'd instinctively resisted, he remembered. He'd not wanted Sam to help him, not wanted to _need_ Sam's help so much. But Sam had been there, bracing him, guiding him to a chair.

"Keep that around you, Dean."

He frowned, turning his face toward Sam's voice, confusion setting in once more. He was so hot; he felt as if his bones were burning.

"You need to keep warm," Sam was saying. "You're shivering so much you're shaking the seat."

He opened his eyes, looking around. They were moving again, heading down a snow-framed, empty highway to destinations unknown. He didn't recall Sam getting back into the car. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep.

He was losing time, losing focus. His world was reduced to dreams, pain, and memory with only the warring factions of heat and cold to keeping him within the confines of life.

Looking down at whatever his brother was tugging back up around him, he saw that he was covered with a large, plush towel—one of the nice ones they always tried to lift when they found them in a motel along the way.

"'the hell?" he mumbled.

"We don't have any spare blankets," Sam explained tiredly, as if he'd said the same words before. "Gotta keep you warm."

Dean peered around them blankly, trying to keep his mind on what was happening _now_, not what had happened a year ago.

"Where'r we?" he mumbled, his voice a low scratch. Feeling cold once more, he clutched the towel around him.

"East, like the man said." Sam shook his head, his face tight. "Stuck to I-94 for awhile. Didn't want to end up in another snow bank. Got nervous and turned off before we hit Madison."

"Need to stop soon," Dean declared, watching his brother's profile.

"I know, Dean," Sam snapped, worry clearly getting the best of him. "Just…we gotta be careful. When we stop, it'll have to be for awhile."

"You try Bobby?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head again. "No answer."

Dean closed his burning eyes. It was too much effort to keep them open when the only thing to see was a world buried in white and his brother's strained expression. Sam didn't even have the radio on, Dean realized.

The quiet around him, between them, was screaming at him. He suddenly felt strangely alone, as if he'd never left the lonely confines of the buried Impala.

Maybe he hadn't, he mused. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream. Maybe he was frozen behind her wheel, stuffed in a snow bank somewhere in Minnesota. Or Wisconsin. Or wherever the hell they'd been. Or were. Maybe he—

The cough exploded out of him, taking him by surprise. He bent forward, reaching blindly for a brace and gripped the dash. Blinking blurry eyes, he saw droplets of red staining the large towel wrapped around him.

"Dammit." Sam's voice was a literal growl. "That's it."

"Sorry," Dean gasped, managing to flop back against the seat, head canted, eyes closed.

"For what?" Sam's voice was incredulous, his teeth clicking together as he bit off the ends of the words. "For some asshat looking to make us the next notch on his belt? For getting shot by a ghost? For doing your job?"

Concentrating on the supremely difficult task of breathing, Dean simply nodded.

_Any of those. _

All _of them. _

"My fault," Dean rasped. He could feel the Impala turning, but didn't open his eyes. He couldn't.

"Yeah? And how do you figure that?" Sam's voice was pissy. He always sounded pissy when he was scared. Dean frowned. If Sam was scared, then Dean wasn't doing his job.

"Coulda…left," Dean tried.

"How?" Sam demanded. "The Impala was _buried in the snow_."

The car stopped; the engine's vibration a comforting rumble beneath Dean's fever-sensitive body.

"Ronald," Dean said simply.

Sam had wanted to leave it, let it go, not tell Ronald the truth. If Dean had somehow handled Ronald differently…if he'd somehow managed to keep the man from taking the bank hostage…maybe this all could have been prevented.

No Hendrickson, no Channel 8 News. No running.

"You couldn't have known, Dean." Sam's voice was subdued. "You just did your job. _Our_ job. We did the best we could."

The quiet inside the unmoving car was almost enough to convince Dean to open his eyes. Almost.

"I'll be back," Sam said, and Dean felt his brother tug once more at the towel wrapped around him.

Which was good because he couldn't keep warm. He was either on fire from the inside out or so cold he ached from it. There was no solace, no middle ground, and it was taking its toll. He felt himself fading; if Sam blinked just right, Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to see him any longer.

He knew things were bad this time. Out-of-his control bad. He felt everything slipping away.

Things had been bad before; it had been scary before. He remembered scary. He remembered hiding, slipping free of child services, of inquisitive teachers. He remembered Dad being hurt—bad enough that they'd needed help from Jim, from Bobby—and trying to figure out how he'd take care of Sam if Dad were gone.

But now he was. He was gone—not a voicemail away, not just out of reach. _Gone_.

He'd traded his life for Dean's. Gave himself over to a demon so that Dean could be here, watching out for Sammy, saving him so he wouldn't have to kill him. Without a guide, without a rule book, without someone or something to follow, to show him the way.

He was going to get them either caught or killed and it would all be because it should have been him. He should have died after that wreck, in that hospital bed. John should be the one here; Hendrickson would never have caught wind of John—he was too good, too quick. One deal, one moment had messed it all up and now here they were, broken and alone.

"I got a room." Sam's voice was suddenly beside him once more.

Dean tried to open his eyes, turn his face away from the memory of an empty dirt road and his one chance to make it right.

_Your dad's supposed to be alive. You're supposed to be dead. So we'll just set things straight, put things in their natural order._

He shook, shivering with fever and regret, feeling a fire burning through him.

"It's around back, so we can hide the Impala," Sam continued, the car's motion modulating his voice slightly. "I don't think Hendrickson knows what the car looks like. Yet."

His brother's words seemed to be muffled, vowels and consonants striking glancing blows against a film of memory and pain that surrounded him. He knew the car was moving, knew Sam was talking to him, but all he could feel was an unbelievable pressure clenching his chest, a need to change things, to make it right.

All he could see were a girl's dark eyes and wide lips smirking up at him, sharing truth that cut into him like a thin blade.

_See, people talk about hell, but it's just a word. It doesn't even come close to describing the real thing…. If you could see your poor daddy? Hear the sounds he makes 'cause he can't even scream?_

"It's got one of those kitchen things in it so…Dean?"

He wanted to call the demon back. He wanted to change his mind. He wanted to switch places, give Sam his father, take up his place in Hell. He didn't want this weight…he wasn't strong enough for this fight.

"Aw, Jesus, Dean." Sam's voice was breaking, the plea in it penetrating the fog of memory enough that Dean turned toward the sound. "Hang in there, man. Just a little longer, okay?"

Sam voice was tight with unshed tears. There'd always been a tight trip of air at the back of his brother's voice when he pushed words past emotion. Dean heard that and wanted to take it away; opening his eyes he saw Sam on his right, peering over him, his brother's image bending and blurring as if the universe were messing with the world's focus.

Behind Sam was a white blur, reality on the other side of a piece of cellophane, muted and distant. He saw his brother reach for him as if stretching his arm across a great chasm; he felt Sam's fingers find him, get a grip of his shoulders, pulling him close. He rolled, his body pliant, weak, unable to do much to help.

"Easy, I gotcha," Sam muttered, sniffing.

Dean felt his arm flung across Sam's shoulders, felt the odd weightless sensation of being lifted, his knees disappearing as his body was slow to respond. They stumbled, Dean's weight pulling at Sam, both nearly landing on the snowy pavement next to the Impala before Sam's hand slapped her roof, catching them.

"I need you to help me, man," Sam implored, his voice strained. "I don't have much left."

"Trying," Dean promised, focusing his energy, his waning strength on his knees, forcing them to lock, gripping Sam's shoulder in a weak hold. "Gotcha."

"Few steps, okay?" Sam told him. "Just gotta get inside."

"'Kay," Dean whispered.

They stumbled forward; Dean felt himself dragging, pulling on his brother. He fought to stay upright, worked to carry his own weight. His vision swam, the image of Sam blurring and fading, a memory too full of monsters eager to allow nightmares their hold. Dean felt himself shaking against the onslaught of fever chills, his body quaking too much to keep hold of Sam.

"Almost there," Sam encouraged, adjusting his grip on Dean's side, turning him until Dean felt himself being dragged.

There was a brief pause at the door, a click of a key in a lock, and then the familiar, stale smell of a motel room. Dean closed his eyes, perfectly willing to fall to the floor and lay there forever. Sam had other ideas.

"Little bit further, man," Sam grunted, hauling Dean's mostly-uncooperative body forward until Dean felt his legs hit the side of a bed.

Sam eased him down, the side of his face rubbing against the course fabric of the comforter. He felt Sam lift his legs, resting them on the end of the bed, his hand pausing, heavy on Dean's calf.

With a last shuddering exhale, Dean slipped into a dark too deep for memories.

www

"Dean?"

His brother's breath rattled with almost disturbing consistency. Sam could tell by the completely lax expression on Dean's face that his brother was truly out this time; no nightmares no dreams no _it should have been me_.

Hearing those words whispered with fearsome vehemence from Dean's chapped lips had sent shivers through Sam that no amount of heat could have eased.

Swaying with exhaustion, Sam turned from the bed and went back out into the cold afternoon. Going through the Impala, he retrieved the duffel of clothes, a few weapons they always brought into motel rooms with them, and the canvass bag of medical supplies. He locked the car, returned to the motel room, and set everything down against the wall.

He slipped the chain lock in place, double-checking the deadbolt. He was too thrashed to ward off visitors and right now he didn't have Dean watching his back. Rotating slowly away from the door, he stood and blinked for a full minute before making himself cross the room to his brother.

Sam's mind screamed at him to _move faster_—Dean was burning up, shaking apart before his eyes. But his body rebelled, the pain in his head traveling down his neck to grip his shoulders and send him staggering.

Clumsily he pulled Dean's boots free and tugged the comforter and sheet out from beneath Dean's body until he could lift it up to cover up to his shoulders. Sam knew he needed to get more medicine into his brother, the constant shivering from the fever was beginning to really get to him. At least this helped Sam feel as if he was doing something productive, something that might help ease his brother's pain.

Turning away from the bed, Sam took two steps toward the canvass bag, fully intending to grab aspirin and cough medicine. But then, the world tilted, spilling him with almost gentle grace to the motel room floor.

He never felt himself hit the ground.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, the muted ringtone pulling him from oblivion just as the call ended. Blinking in confusion, Sam pushed his head from the carpet, gingerly rubbing his already bruised cheek. The room around him was dark—no outside light from the barely parted curtains offering him a clue as to the time. Rolling to his back, he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, working to gather his bearings.

He didn't remember passing out; he couldn't remember what had woken him. He had no idea why he was on the floor. And for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. There had been so many motels in so many towns over so many years….

Until his phone rang again, he was utterly lost. The vibration in his pocket made him yelp and this time he was able to pull it free before the ringtone ended.

"'lo?"

"_Sam?"_

"Yeah." He pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache returning along with awareness.

Fennimore, Wisconsin.

Motel.

Dean.

Fever.

"_It's Cooper."_

"Yeah." Sam blinked his eyes wide, staring once more at the ceiling, defying it to burst into flames and take him away from all this.

"_You boys okay?"_

"No," Sam answered automatically, too tired and in too much pain to censor himself. A dull, almost-recognizable hum ran in a constant vibration in the background of the motel room.

"_Yeah, figured as much."_

"What is it?"

"_Your Agent fella finally showed up a little while after you left."_ Cooper's voice sounded thin, reedy, as if he'd been running or was talking to him from the inside of a tin cup.

"Yeah?"

"_Had a reward for information on your brother."_

"Swell," Sam sighed, pushing himself up on an elbow. He had to pause with the change in elevation; his head literally swam.

He needed to check on Dean. He had no idea how long he'd been out—long enough that the light had disappeared leaving them cloaked in a suffocating, murky dark.

"_Couple of people cashed in."_

"Marshall or Mead?" Sam asked.

"_Does it matter?"_

"Guess not," Sam sighed, managing to get to his knees and peer over Dean's bed. He went cold.

The bed was empty.

"_I'm the only one who knows what your car looks like,"_ Cooper reminded him.

"True," Sam conceded, using the side of the bed to haul himself to his feet.

"_I'm coming to help you. I've been driving south on I-94 about an hour now."_

"Thought you couldn't leave," Sam replied.

"_Decided to cash in on some vacation time."_

"You're not gonna sell us out, are you, Coop?" Sam asked, his voice hard as he switched on the light beside the bed, turning in a slow circle to scan the empty room. _Where the hell…?_

Cooper was silent for a beat. When he spoke, his voice dug a furrow in Sam's heart.

"_I'd no sooner turn you in than I would my own son."_

Swallowing, Sam nodded, catching a glimpse of his worn, ragged appearance in the mirror across the room. In the reflection behind him, he saw something shimmer in the mirror.

The light was on in the bathroom, the crack beneath the door shining through.

"Oh, shit," Sam gasped, turning quickly—too quickly. He reached out for the bed, catching his balance.

"_What? What is it?"_

Sam dropped the phone in his haste to get to the door. Water. That had been the dull hum he'd been hearing. _Running water._

He shoved the door open, the sight that greeted him enough to turn his blood to ice. Water poured unchecked from the bathtub faucet, running down the drain, the sound of it suddenly deafening in the confines of the small bathroom. Lying on the floor, dressed in only his jeans, was Dean—his face white, his lips blue, his quaking body the only sign that he wasn't dead.

"Oh, God," Sam gasped, going to his knees beside his unconscious brother.

He gathered Dean up against him, shocked at the heat that poured from him even as he lay half-dressed on the cold tile.

"Hey, hey," Sam patted Dean's cheek, cradling his brother's shoulders in one arm, the other feeling for a pulse, for the reassurance of breath. The gold amulet his brother always wore rested at the base of his throat and as Sam brushed it aside, he could feel the heat from Dean's body radiating from the metal.

He looked around the bathroom, seeing Dean's shirts puddled behind the door, trying to piece together the events that would have compelled Dean to be here, collapsed on the floor, the water running.

"Dean, what the _hell_, man?"

Sam cupped Dean's head beneath his chin, rolling his shoulders around his brother's, trying in vain to stop Dean's muscles from jerking and twisting, the heat from Dean's fever knifing through Sam and sending his heartbeat skittering to the base of his throat.

He reached over and turned off the water, once more hearing the rasp of Dean's ragged breathing as quiet returned to the bathroom.

"Hey, man, open your eyes." Sam shook him slightly. Dean's head slid forward against Sam's chest. "Wake up, Dean, c'mon."

When Dean remained stubbornly unresponsive, Sam clenched his jaw, left without choices. Rising up on his knees, he shifted Dean until his brother's heavy body was draped over one shoulder. Using the edge of the sink as a ledge, Sam pulled himself to his feet, gripping the back of Dean's legs, and stumbling forward until he had returned his brother to the bed.

Gasping from the effort, Sam cast about for his phone. The world spun in the opposite direction from his search, the motion sending him tumbling to the bed, his ribs hitting Dean's legs, his air huffing out in a grunt.

They needed help. They needed it _now_.

"Cooper?" Sam breathed into the phone, rolling forward at the end of the bed until his forehead rested on the comforter.

"_What happened?"_ Cooper's frantic voice cut through Sam's dizziness, drawing him upright until he could once again see Dean's face, hear his brother's rasping breath.

"Dean," Sam said, pulling a knee up on the bed and resting his elbow on it. He dropped his forehead into his palm, knifing his fingers through his hair. "He was in the bathroom. On the floor."

"_How is he?"_

"The water was…the water was running…and he was passed out on the floor."

Why was it so hard to _think_?

He forced his mind to slow, to focus on his brother's face. Dean's left arm was splayed out from his body were it had fallen when Sam rolled him to the bed. Sam watched as his brother's fingers flexed and twisted the comforter as if fighting to anchor himself.

"_How. Is. He?"_

"He's hot. He's really hot." Sam closed his eyes. "And his breathing is…it sounds like crunching glass."

"_Okay. Listen to me. It's going to be okay,"_ Cooper tried, his tone edging on frantic. _"I need to know where you are."_

Sam opened his mouth, two heartbeats from telling him. His heart shouted _you can't do this alone; _in his head, however, he heard the one voice he and Dean had always instinctively trusted, the one voice that had given them the tools to survive as long as they had: his father.

_Be careful. Be cautious. Can you trust him?_

In that moment he looked at Dean and saw his brother's fever-bright eyes staring silently back at him, his expression grim, his lips parted, his body thirsty for air. It was almost as if Dean, too, had heard the voice.

Dean shook his head. Once. And then he closed his eyes again.

But it was enough to remind Sam who they were. Why they were here. And that Cooper had just told him that people in a town they'd just saved—a town Dean was literally dying for—had turned them over to the Feds.

"Are you being followed?

"_What? I…no, I don't…I mean I didn't tell anyone why I was leaving."_

"Anyone else get access to your phone before you left?"

Sam kept his focus on Dean's face, listening as his suspicion cut through the silence on the other end of the line, hearing the realization in Cooper's tone as he answered.

"_I don't think so, Sam."_

Dean shivered, rolling his head on the pillow, his brows pulled close, his mouth slipping down into a scowl.

"I can't risk it, Cooper."

"_Sam, don't—"_

"Have you ever read _Last of the Mohicans_?" Sam asked suddenly, trying for one desperate attempt at reaching out. If anyone were listening, he hoped the M.E. would be quicker on the uptake than any Federal Agent.

Cooper was quiet a moment. _"Yes. A long time ago."_

"You ought to take another look."

Sam closed the phone, his heart choking him, praying he made the right choice. Dean made a low sound in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a word.

"Dean?"

"Fuck'n hurts…," Dean rasped.

"What does?"

"Everything."

"Okay," Sam nodded. "Okay, I got meds here, Dean."

"Too hot," Dean groaned.

Sam closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead in frustration. _He'd been trying to cool down_. That's what he'd been doing with the water. Dean had been trying to cool down and Sam had been too out of it to help him.

"Think, Sam," he admonished himself. "You're better than this."

He knew what to do about high fevers. Pneumonia and Dean's rasping breath, bone-breaking coughs, and blue lips were out of his league, but he knew what to do about fevers.

_Gotta cool him down._

He pushed himself to his feet, bracing against the wall as dizziness threatened to overtake him once more. The dimly lit room seemed to warp, turning in a slow, nauseating circle. He took a breath and then, goaded by the sound of Dean's breathing, he crossed the room to the duffel bags.

Not knowing how close Cooper might be, if he was being followed by Hendrickson, if his phone was bugged, how safe they were, Sam moved on instinct. He grabbed the .45 he'd pulled from the trunk of the Impala, checked the clip, then tucked it into the front of his jeans. Next, Sam dug through the canvass bag, finding it hard to focus on the myriad of supplies.

In moments he found a bottle of water and ibuprofen. He swallowed three pills before turning to Dean.

"Hey," he called gently. "Think you could swallow some aspirin?"

Dean laid still, his heavy-lidded eyes regarding Sam dully. "Sam…," Dean swallowed, licking his dry lips sluggishly. "Should've been me."

"Stop saying that," Sam pleaded, climbing up on the bed and leaning a shoulder against the headboard. "Just take these, okay?"

"Mean it."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," Sam sniffed, surprised to find his throat choked with tears. "Brain's all fever-fried."

"I…know," Dean sighed, his eyes slipping closed. "Y'd be…better off."

"No." Sam shook his head, though Dean was no longer looking at him. "Don't say that, Dean. _No_."

Dean coughed weakly, turning slightly to his side. Sam took advantage of the angle and cupped the back of Dean's neck, bringing his head forward. He worked to ignore the fact that it was almost painful to touch his brother's skin. Easing the coated pills between Dean's lips, Sam helped him drink some water.

"Got some cough medicine here, too," Sam said, tipping the small cup to the edge of Dean's mouth.

"Sucks," Dean muttered after swallowing the medicine.

"I know," Sam whispered, gripping Dean's shoulder in what could—in their family, at least—pass for a hug.

He eased his brother back to the bed, then worked on the buckle of Dean's jeans, sliding the garment from his brother's legs, needing to rid him of as much clothing as he could to try to cool him down. Dean was awake enough to be aware of what was happening, unable to do much in the way of resisting the invasion of privacy.

Sam remembered acutely having the opposite problem just days ago, needing to warm his brother quickly and, as Dean put it, annihilating his personal space to do so. The plea in Dean's eyes now matched the desperate way Dean had shoved at him, trying to shield himself any way he could.

"Hendrickson's in Lethe," Sam told his brother, trying to distract him. "Has a reward on you."

"Swell," Dean croaked, one hand moving upward to rest on his sternum as if in protection.

"Cooper wouldn't tell me who turned you in." He pulled the sheet up, covering Dean to the waist.

"Doesn't matter," Dean sighed, the sound bleeding pain into the room.

Sam stood and draped the jeans on a chair, leaving Dean's black boxer-briefs in place, and made his way into the bathroom. Turning the water to cold, he gripped the sides of the sink for balance, desperately willing the pain throbbing through his head to subside, the dizziness to pass.

He just wanted to sleep. Just _sleep_.

But then who would watch over Dean? When had this become so hard? They had barreled through life, fighting against forces others never even realized were there, surviving because of skill, luck, and each other. And now, life decided to smack them down, show them they're fragile, that they can be broken.

Wetting three smaller towels, he twisted the excess water out, thinking about Cooper's grim words to Dean.

_The human body can only take so much abuse. _

He returned to Dean, folding back the comforter so that only covered up to Dean's knees, then carefully lay the first towel across his brother's forehead. Dean flinched back, eyes opening wide in confusion.

"Hey, hey, easy," Sam soothed. "It's just me."

Dean slid his eyes to meet Sam's and the look of pained remorse held there wrapped a tight fist around Sam's heart and squeezed. Swallowing, Sam tucked the other two towels up under Dean's arms, against the pressure points.

Working to help Dean swallow more water, Sam ended up sitting next to him, his hip at Dean's shoulder, his back against the headboard.

"'M sorry, man," Dean whispered.

"Shut up," Sam snapped, looking anywhere but down at Dean. "Just…shut up."

"Supposed to watch…out for you." Dean blinked slowly.

"Don't you dare say Dad should be here instead of you," Sam sniffed, finding the tears spilling down his face before he was able to deny them. "Don't you _dare_ say that."

"Miss him." Dean swallowed.

"I know," Sam whispered. "But he…_he_ made that choice, Dean," he declared, his voice gaining strength. "Not _you_. And if you keep talking like this…I'm…I'm gonna take you to a hospital."

"Can't," Dean looked at him quickly and Sam felt his heart slam against his ribs at the look of desperate panic caught in his brother's expression. "No…no matter what."

"Dean—this is…_please_, just—"

Dean reached for him, his hot fingers wrapping around Sam's wrist with surprising strength, his nails leaving four small crescents on Sam's skin.

"Promise me," Dean said, his voice two octaves deeper than normal, but his words unwavering for this one moment. "Sam. _Promise me_."

Sam was struck with the wicked sting of memory; his vision blurred and for a brief moment, he saw them not as they are now—Dean lying weak and shivering on a motel bed, Sam bent low so that he could catch his brother's words—but as they had been not long ago. He saw himself looking up at Dean, alcohol turning his world sideways, demanding the same words from his brother. _Promise me._

And both times the promise could end in death.

"I can't make that promise, Dean," Sam replied, feeling like a hypocrite.

Dean gripped tighter, his fingers burning Sam's flesh, his eyes wide, the green barely visible in the dim light from the bedside lamp. Sam couldn't tear his gaze away, but felt as if he were staring into pools of pain.

"Sam."

He said it with a clear demand for compliance in a tone that Sam had rarely been able to ignore. Sam looked away, swiping roughly at the tears he could feel on his cheek, angry at himself for this weakness.

"He. _Can't._ Win."

Dean pulled once on Sam's wrist, calling his eyes. Sam looked down, listening with a broken heart as Dean's breath rasped through his blue-tinged, cracked lips. Dean reached up and pulled the towel from his forehead, turning his head on the pillow until he stared directly back at his brother.

"Don't let him."

Sam sniffed again. "You mean Hendrickson?"

"He doesn't…know us." Dean closed his eyes, his face pulling tight, his lips flattening in a line as he rode out a wave of pain. "He doesn't know…."

With a low groan of protest, Dean turned his face toward the pillow, a rasping cough sounding as if it were gutting him. His fingers fell away from Sam's wrist and his body shook.

"Okay!" Sam replied, reaching out to grip Dean's bare shoulder once more, flexing his fingers until he was sure his brother felt him. "Okay, Dean, I promise. I won't let him get us."

"He's…w-wrong," Dean gasped, his face still pressed close to the pillow.

Sam eased him back, wincing at the splash of blood visible on his brother's lips. He took a towel and gently wiped Dean's mouth clean. Dean lay as still as possible, his body trembling, but not quite as much as before. His eyes closed tight, his face fisted in quiet pain, he simply breathed.

"I know," Sam said finally, with the same soft resignation as before. "We'll stay off the grid. He won't find us. I promise."

For a moment, Sam felt very small. There was no one nearby, no one who understood, no one to help them. Their lives weren't all that different from the ghosts they hunted: in the world, but not of it. Invisible to almost everyone around them; when someone caught sight of them, it didn't end well.

"At least…this way a d-damn ghost…w-won't get me," Dean said, a wry half-smile cracking his dry lips.

"You're _not_ gonna die, you jerk," Sam choked out, running the back of his hand across his nose. "C'mon, you really gonna let some…some _cold_ take out the great Dean Winchester?"

Dean started to chuckle, but closed his eyes tight as another cough rocked through him, the force of it curling his weak body to the side, the helpless moan of pain fishtailing the end of the ragged sound enough to turn Sam's belly to liquid. Rubbing his forehead, Sam looked across the room to the canvass bag, trying to think through the medications Cooper had sent with them, frightened of making the wrong choice.

He dug his phone from his pocket, scrolling down to Bobby's number. The endless ring in his ear told him the elder hunter still wasn't reachable. In any other situation, this might be cause to worry, but Sam didn't have enough left in him to worry for someone else. He was all used up.

Pushing himself up, using the wall as a guide to keep his balance, Sam made his way over to the bag and began to set supplies out on the table. The labels blurred as he tried to read them; his fingers felt too large, his hands clumsy. He bent forward, bracing himself on the table and closing his eyes. He'd had concussions before; he knew this was more than his head being cracked by a ghost on steroids.

It was not sleeping for days. It was lack of food. It was worry and fear.

It was a brother who wouldn't quit until the world slapped him down. It was a dead father and a cryptic message. It was a murky fate and frightening visions of death.

It was the relentless pursuit by a Federal Agent. It was a lifetime of fighting and hiding and living on the edge.

And it was too much.

Sam's knees trembled and he almost fell. The ringtone of his cell phone grabbed him, catching his attention. Without looking at the screen to see who was calling, he flipped it open and answered.

"This is Sam."

"_Motel 6 or The Watershed?"_

Sam's relief at hearing the voice on the other end was so great he almost laughed.

"Where are you?"

"_I'm at a payphone at a gas station in Fennimore, Wisconsin," _Cooper replied. _"No one followed me."_

Sam bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing himself to shove his emotion back where it couldn't get in the way.

"_There are only two hotels in this town, so which is it?"_

He couldn't remember; he hadn't been paying attention when he pulled off. He'd simply needed to get Dean out of the car. He looked around, spying a notepad on the table next to the canvass bag.

"The Watershed. Room 60B."

"_I'll be right there."_

Sam looked over at his brother as he closed the phone.

"We got help coming, man," he said softly, sinking down to the edge of the bed as his legs turned hollow. "Hang in there."

Minutes ticked by. Darkness grew. Dean breathed.

Sam waited.

When the knock came, Sam flinched in startled surprise. He almost couldn't gain his feet. Leaning heavily on the wall next to the door, he pulled the .45 from his waistband and clicked the deadbolt. Opening the door just the length of the chain, he raised the gun and peered through the crack.

"Sam?"

"Cooper?"

"It's me."

"You sure you're alone?"

"Yes."

Sam closed the door, slipped the chain free, then opened it once more, not moving away from the wall. Cooper slipped inside, closing the door behind him and hastily refastened the locks. He turned to Sam, his body tightening and pulling away at the sight of the gun.

"Hi," he said, hesitantly.

"I can't believe you found us," Sam replied honestly.

"You can thank Mrs. Walker, tenth grade English for that one." Cooper had his hands up in a gesture of surrender. He made his way cautiously forward. "I had to search a map of Wisconsin for awhile before it clicked. James Fenimore Cooper. Fennimore."

"Resourceful," Sam commented. He felt oddly detached, almost weightless.

It wasn't until Cooper eased the weapon from his grasp that he realized he'd been training the barrel on the man's chest.

"How 'bout we get you two checked out, yeah?" Cooper said, taking hold of Sam's arm and guiding him from the wall toward the vacant bed.

Sam sat obediently, the world seeming to slowly retreat, bringing only Dean and Cooper into focus. He watched Cooper set the .45 on the nightstand between the beds, then lean over and touch the back of his hand to Dean's forehead.

"Damn," Cooper muttered. "You take his temp?"

Sam shook his head mutely. He could feel himself listing, trying to keep the world balanced around him. Suddenly, Cooper was in front of him, hands on his arms, mouth moving. It took Sam a moment to figure out what he was saying.

"Easy, I gotcha, Sam, just lay back."

Cooper held onto his arms as Sam melted into the bed. He took a breath, preparing to say something, remind Cooper of something, but he couldn't remember what.

And with no more resistance than a sigh, Sam gave in to the black.

www

Voices rose and faded around him. The sound of the mingled words felt like water, pulling him low, then buoying him up. He couldn't find one to hold onto, one to anchor him.

The tones were soothing when heat seemed to surround him; it burned with intensity from his heart through his skin. When the heat suddenly vanished to be replaced by cold, the voices became sharp, insistent, demanding.

The pain sucked away his air, pressing his lungs flat, drowning him in darkness. He tried to find relief, trying to roll away from the ache, trying to fight the quiet sighs in the back of his mind beckoning him to fall inside the black. His body pleaded for relief, for peace, for one breath without pain.

Then the fire returned, shaking him with its veracity, threatening to tear him apart, to burn him alive. He cursed it, fought it. He curled his fists tight, putting everything behind his punches, every bit of energy he didn't have. He fought and threatened, telling whatever it was that wanted to take him that he wasn't ready to go.

He had a job to do. And it wasn't finished.

A cooling hand and a whispered promise stilled him. Wetness flowed across his burning lips and down his parched throat. The voices returned; he didn't know what was real, what was memory. But this time there was one among the many. One that stood out, speaking softly, a gruff sense of affection echoing in words he'd never forget, words he held onto when others threatened to tear him down.

_Don't be scared, Dean._

He turned to the sound of that voice, wanting to hear it again, wanting to escape from the heat, the cold, the pain in his chest, in his throat, the weakness that suffocated him. He wanted to hear that voice again, wanted to believe the words.

_I am so proud of you._

He half-sobbed, needing to live up to those words, needing to know he'd earned them. And then he felt the heat begin to fade, not replaced by cold this time. Simply fade, ease up and drift away as if he were being granted a stay of execution. With the heat, the pain receded enough to allow him to gather a breath, his shaking body relaxing with the return of air. He sighed as darkness rolled over him once more, this time bringing peace.

www

"Is he actually asleep?"

Sam sat with is back to the headboard of his bed, one leg drawn up, the other hanging over the edge of the bed. Early morning light filtered through the slightly parted curtains turning the room gray.

He watched Cooper adjust the blanket around Dean, his brother's shoulders bare, one arm pulled free from the comforter, and IV tubing running from it to a bag of fluid and medicine above him. An oxygen mask was covering his nose and mouth; it had been hell to keep that thing on with Dean fighting them at every turn.

"I think so, finally," Cooper sighed. He checked the IV bag he'd hooked on the nondescript picture above Dean's bed. "I think he's sweated out the worst of the fever."

Sam relaxed slightly, unable to pull his eyes from his brother's still form, thankful for the quiet that had finally come over Dean's tortured body. It had been one of the longest nights of his life.

He'd slept for a few hours after Cooper's arrival, waking at the sound of a bullet sliding into a chamber. It was one of the only sounds that could wake him from a sound sleep. He'd opened blurry eyes to see Dean sitting upright, pointing the .45 Cooper had set on the nightstand directly at the M.E.'s forehead.

Cooper had been frozen, his eyes steady on Dean's.

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean had demanded, his voice low, dangerous, his eyes flat and feverish.

Sam had risen slowly, seeing from his angle that the safety was off of the weapon and Dean's aim was sure and steady.

"Dean," he'd said, quietly. "It's Cooper."

"Answer me," Dean had demanded as if Sam hadn't even been there.

"I'm Cooper," the M.E. had replied. "I'm here to help you."

Dean had jerked his chin sideways as if considering this information. "You're not here for Sam?"

"Say no," Sam told Cooper in a low, hurried voice. "Tell him no."

"No," Cooper replied. "I'm just here to help you."

Dean lowered the gun and, to Sam's horror, his eyes had rolled back in his head, his body turning boneless as he sagged back against the bed. Sam had retrieved the weapon as Cooper took care of Dean. Sam was ordered to stay in bed, drink water, and eat the food Cooper had set on the nightstand next to him.

"I got enough to deal with here," Cooper had nodded toward Dean. "I don't need you getting sick, too. You're wrecked enough as it is."

Sam had more or less obeyed; at one point in the night he moved to Dean's bed to sit next to his brother and calm him when he struck out, sooth him when he fought, agree with him when he cursed, and warn Cooper when he got too close.

The fever brought out the fight in Dean that Sam had been so afraid he'd lost somewhere beneath the ice.

The warrior who put himself between Sam and the darkness, the man who'd stood up to every nightmare, the brother who'd willingly stayed behind when Sam thought he would be taken over by a demonic virus, all variations had appeared that night as the fever burned down Dean's walls, exposing him.

Sam had never loved his brother more.

As morning crept across the horizon, Cooper insisted Sam return to his bed, giving him more ibuprofen, checking his pupils, his pulse, his blood pressure, and forcing more food and water onto him.

"After you finish that," Cooper said, pointing to the half-eaten sandwich in his lap, "I want you to sleep."

"I wanna be awake when Dean wakes up," Sam protested, leaning his head back against the wall. It was too heavy for his weary neck muscles to hold erect.

"If I have anything to say about it," Cooper sighed, dropping into one of the chairs positioned next to the small table, "he'll sleep for a good long while." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "That was a helluva night."

Sam nodded wordlessly.

"If you don't mind me asking," Cooper said, dropping his hands and peering with narrowed eyes at Sam. "Why is he so protective of you?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Always has been. My dad drilled it into him." He looked over at Dean, his half-masked face appearing achingly young. "Watch out for Sammy." Sniffing slightly, denying himself emotion, Sam looked away. "We're all we got now. And Dean's…never really had anyone else but me and Dad."

"He said some…weird stuff, though…."

"You mean all that stuff about demons and deals?" Sam asked, sliding his eyes askance.

Cooper nodded.

"You sure you want to know?"

Cooper nodded again.

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Curiosity?"

Sam set his sandwich on the nightstand and swung both legs over the side of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head low for a minute, feeling the muscles there pull from tension.

"Curiosity isn't good enough, man," Sam told the M.E., his voice directed toward the floor. "You can't…_unlearn_ this stuff. Once you know it, it stays with you and," he lifted his head, looking directly at the older man, "it changes you. It changes everything—how you look at the world, how you see other people. It changes what you believe."

"Maybe I need that changed," Cooper told him, his wiry eyebrows pulled close, the lines around his eyes deepening to crevices. He pushed out his lips, glancing down. "Maybe I need to know the Devil exists."

"But…why?" Sam asked, hearing his own voice crack against the word.

Why would anyone want to know what lurks in the dark? Why would anyone want to see behind the curtain? There were so many times in his life that Sam wished he could just go back to the moment before he learned the truth and pick door number two.

Especially now. Especially with the weight of his unknown destiny waiting to greet him every morning.

_He said I might have to kill you, Sammy._

"Because," Cooper replied, his lips flattening in an unfamiliar expression of grief. "If the Devil exists…then maybe so does God."

Sam swallowed hard, looking back at the older man, trying to order his words.

"And maybe…," Cooper continued quietly, "maybe I need to know that God's out there."

It was a thought Sam had held tightly in moments of true fear. It was a hope he'd let fill him when Dean lay dying in the hospital bed, when his brother's brokenhearted voice filled the air around him with their father's last words: maybe God was watching.

Maybe they could be saved. Maybe it wasn't all darkness and death and fear and fighting.

He nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll tell you." Sam shifted back against the bed, looking over at Dean. The peace he saw on his brother's face was a direct contrast from the fierce fight, the obvious pain that had captured his expression through the night. "But you're not going to like what you hear."

Cooper sat back and Sam started talking. He left out the personal touches—Jessica, Mom, Dad. He left out the human element, too, like the back-woods cannibals that had kidnapped him and burned Dean with a branding iron. He stuck mainly to the supernatural, filling the morning with soft-spoken recounts of wendigos and banshees, spirits and pagan gods, zombies and vampires.

Dean slept. Cooper listened.

And Sam talked.

He heard himself speaking factually about Bloody Mary, about Constance Welch, about the times—so many times—Dean had pulled him free, pulled him out, saved his ass. He heard himself telling about the heart-crushing fear of seeing his brother tied up helplessly when he reached Dean just moments before he was sacrificed to a pagan god and when he cut him free from a wendigo lair. He heard himself talk of hellhounds and crossroad deals, of goofer dust and rock salt. He spoke matter-of-factly about Holy Water, silver blades, and consecrated iron.

He listened to himself talk about how he'd lived—how they'd both survived—and he almost didn't believe it.

They sounded like superheroes, not human beings. And yet, not twelve hours ago, they'd been poised on the brink, beaten and broken, unable to care for each other, unable to save themselves.

"Tell me about your Dad," Cooper asked.

Sam wasn't sure how long the silence had stretched from his last word, but he looked up in surprise at the sound of Cooper's voice.

"Why do you want to know about our Dad?" Sam asked warily.

"I want to know why you two…push yourselves. Past the point any sane person would go. I want to know what drives you."

Sam shrugged. "It's our job."

"No," Cooper shook his head. "It's more than that."

Sam looked away, the room suddenly feeling too small, the people in it too much.

"I have a son," Cooper said suddenly. "Jason. He's about your age now."

Sam shot him a surprised look. The questions that had stacked themselves when it came to this man—why he was in Lethe, why he was alone, where he'd been before—clattered back in Sam's mind as he tried to marry what he'd just heard with what he knew.

"But…then why—"

"He's not in Lethe," Cooper said. "Truth is…I don't know where he is."

Sam frowned. "You don't know?"

Cooper leaned forward, mirroring Sam's earlier position. "He was taken from us. When he was eight. I worked with the police on the case. Tracked down every piece of evidence. Every…_fact._" He huffed. "It was the only thing that kept me together. The facts. Because they all pointed to Jason being alive."

"You…never found him?"

Cooper shook his head. "My wife…she left. Couldn't bear to live the rest of her life with an emotionally distant man. Don't blame her one bit."

He stood, arching his back and moved over to Dean's bed. He removed the oxygen mask, checking Dean's pulse, then removed the empty IV bag and needle, tucking Dean's arm beneath the comforter. Sam watched this silently, thinking about the story behind the man who'd initially resisted belief and ended up risking everything to help them.

To save them.

"When Dean told us what Wallace Sanderson did…how he'd _killed_ his children," Cooper stopped moving, staring down at Dean's sleeping form. He dragged his hand down his face, the loose skin along his jaw line folding and flattening with the motion. "All I could think was how desperate he must've been. And then I remembered all those years, searching for Jason, collecting facts, refusing to believe…anything…except what I had in my files."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Cooper looked at Sam. "I came to Lethe to forget about who I was. I was nobody. Had no past. Just my skills. They didn't care; turns out they had their own secrets."

Sam nodded. Lethe had been the perfect place for this man to disappear.

"Until a snow storm blew you two my way," Cooper said. "And I gotta say…I've never seen anything like you. Either of you. There's a…devotion here. It's deeper than just growing up together. Just being brothers. I've seen it in war vets and soldiers...but not in…regular people. Not like this."

Sam looked down. His brother was the other half of him.

Even when Sam left to go to school, he knew he was leaving a piece of himself behind. He wasn't _himself_ without Dean in his life. Sam knew that he'd never have been able to fully commit to Jessica the way he'd been living; he needed Dean to be whole. It had often made him wonder if Jess would have loved the whole Sam, if she'd ever met him.

And though he put up a decent show and had a million masks to face the world, Dean showed Sam that he had no desire to try life on for size without him the moment he locked them both in that room—virus or no virus—back in Rivergrove.

It was the other side of the promise John thrust upon Dean that scared Sam to death. If Dean _couldn't _save him…if he did, indeed, have to kill him…Dean wouldn't survive it. Sam was sure of it.

"So," Cooper continued. "I'd like to know about your Dad."

Sam looked at Dean, wanting for just a moment, to see his brother's eyes. Needing that connection.

"I think that's Dean's story," he said. "You need to hear it from him."

Cooper frowned. "Why?"

Sam rolled his neck. "When Hendrickson found us…he said some things. Some things about Dad. It…rattled Dean. Shook him up pretty good. I think," Sam shrugged, slouching against the headboard, "I think it would be good for him to tell you what kind of man our Dad really was."

www

When Dean next opened his eyes, he felt hollow.

His chest ached, his stomach muscles felt bruised, his lower back was fisted tightly. He could swear someone had opened him up and cleared out his insides, then returned them to him in a tangle. He swallowed, the sensation like that of cracked earth soaking up the first rain of autumn. He blinked, grit melding the corners of his lashes.

There was a sound coming from the foot of his bed. Voices—not familiar—and a low tone that told him the TV was on. He shifted slightly, looking at the stained ceiling, remembering. They'd stopped at a motel. He recalled Sam dragging him inside. He recalled making Sam promise to not go to a hospital.

And then…nothing else.

Despite feeling like he'd been run over by a dozen horses, he was alive, and they were still in the motel room, so Sam had come through once again. Saving his ass was becoming the kid's M.O.

He turned his head to the side, seeing Sam on the bed next to his, sprawled across the mattress, dressed in a white T-shirt and sweats, his mouth slightly open, a low snore slipping through his lips.

Dean smiled slightly at the sight, reaching up to rub at his chest, thankful that he didn't feel like coughing. Turning to his side to ease the ache in his back, Dean saw that there was another person in the room. Instinctively he reached beneath his pillow, finding the space empty. Pushing himself weakly to his elbow, he was unable to bite back a groan, and drew the man's attention.

"Cooper?" he croaked in surprise.

"Hey, there," Cooper stood and moved over to his side. "So you decided to join the land of the living again, have you?"

"When did you get here?" Dean frowned, dropping back against the pillow, amazed that such a slight movement could tire him out.

"Almost two days ago, now," Cooper replied. "You don't remember trying to shoot me?"

Dean blinked, looking over at Sam who huffed in his sleep, then rolled to his side, his back to them.

"No." He shook his head. "Guess I missed."

"Sam got the gun away from you." Cooper smiled. "Now that both of you have pointed a loaded weapon at me, I feel like I passed some kind of initiation."

Dean narrowed his eyes, looking around the room warily. "You're alone?"

Cooper nodded. "Alone, wasn't tracked, wasn't followed."

Dean sighed, then pressed his hand against his chest, breathing again. "I can...breathe."

"Finally," Cooper said, reaching behind him to shove another pillow under his head, then help prop him up. "Don't overdo it, though."

"Sitting up is overdoing it?" Dean replied, his voice still a bit strangled sounding, despite the fact that he was getting air without fighting for every breath.

"After the last forty-eight hours, yes."

Dean let his eyes track the room, taking in the medical supplies scattered across a table that on any normal day would have been covered with weapons. He saw small trash bags filled with take-out cartons, a pile of white towels—some splattered with red stains—in the corner of the room, and a few paper sacks with what he assumed were more groceries and supplies stacked next to the TV on the edge of the dresser.

"Thanks," he said quietly, returning his eyes to Cooper. "We…we wouldn't have made it if you hadn't found us."

Cooper looked down, crossing his arms. "You got it backwards, Dean," he said quietly. "If you hadn't found Lethe…who knows how many would have died. The whole town owes you both a big thanks."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "I'm guessing they didn't send you to deliver it."

"No," Cooper shook his head with a small smile of regret. "In fact…no one knows I'm here."

"Good."

Cooper looked at him then, as if working up to something, but shook his head. "You think you could eat something? Some soup, maybe?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that sounds great, actually."

"Gimme two minutes."

Cooper moved away from the bed and dug something out of a paper sack before heading to the kitchenette. Dean followed him with quiet eyes, sinking deeper into the pillows, already worn out. Cooper returned with warm soup and a large spoon, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing the container to Dean.

"What are you watching?" Dean asked, sipping the broth and glancing at the TV over Cooper's shoulder.

Cooper half-smiled. "_Ghost Hunters_. Some show on the Sci-Fi channel."

"I've heard of it," Dean told him, enjoying the liquid gold feeling of the soup filling him up slowly.

"After what your brother told me the other day about some of the things you guys have…dealt with," Cooper said, glancing back at the TV, "I got curious. Wanted to see what these guys did."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "None of that's real, Coop. You've seen more than these guys ever have."

"Huh," Cooper chuckled. "How 'bout that."

"Where are they this time?" he asked, eating a few more bites of soup.

Cooper frowned at the TV. "Someplace called Roosevelt Asylum in Illinois."

Dean grinned tiredly, handing the empty container back to Cooper. "They won't find anything there," he said.

Cooper looked back at him. "Why do you say that?"

"'Cause," Dean yawned, rolling to his side and tucking his hands beneath his pillow. "Sammy and I already toasted that bastard."

Cooper's reply was lost as Dean succumbed to the heady pull of sleep.

Hours later he sighed himself awake, still weak, still achy, but relishing the feeling of filling his lungs.

"You look better." Sam's voice was soft in deference to the shadowed room.

Dean shifted to his side, rolling toward the sound of his brother's voice. Somewhere below him he heard the amusing sound of staccato snoring.

"Hey," Dean greeted quietly.

Sam smiled, pale light from a crescent moon shining in through slightly parted curtains illuminating his face, turning him a ghostly blue. He sat on the edge of his bed, leaning across the opening, watching Dean.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Better," Dean answered honestly. "Thanks to you. Again."

Sam shook his head. "Wasn't me, man. It was Cooper."

The snore turned into a hiccup of sound for a moment, then returned to a steady cadence.

"Where is he?"

Sam tilted his chin. "He's got a bedroll; been sleeping on the floor at the foot of your bed."

"He said I tried to shoot him," Dean said, pulling the pillow closer, bunching it beneath his head and propping himself up to better see Sam.

"Yeah," Sam huffed. "You were pretty out of it."

Dean watched a shadow pass over Sam's face and felt a tug at his heart. What had he revealed? What had Sam seen behind his wall?

"Let me guess," Dean said, clearing his throat, "I gave you the rundown of the Impala's engine."

"Not quite." The breathless tick at the end of Sam's words told Dean that it had been worse than he expected. Much worse.

"Oh, God," Dean groaned, rubbing his face. "Don't tell me I told you about that night with Emma Curtis."

Sam frowned, momentarily going along with Dean's misdirection. "Which one was Emma?"

"Brunette," Dean said, rolling to his back and looking up at the ceiling. "Green eyes, full lips, legs that went _all _the way up." He glanced to the side at Sam's face. "Tits like—"

"I get the picture," Sam held up a hand, shaking his head good-naturedly.

Dean allowed a grin to slide into place, pulling the side of his face into a quirk of humor, his eyes narrowing, shielding the honesty that swam to the surface. It was a grin that he knew would always soften his brother's eyes with tolerance. It was a grin that always made Sam glance away, amused exasperation tugging at his lips.

It was a grin of protection.

_Don't say it, Sam. Not yet._

"I'm just glad you're okay, Dean," Sam said, his eyes twin pools of emotion. He looked down, taking a shaky breath. "We really just need a break, y'know?"

"You got any plans next coupla days?" Dean asked, feeling sleep tug at him, eager to fold him back into its embrace.

Sam half-smiled. "Not really."

Dean yawned, pressing a hand against his still tender chest. "How 'bout we hang out here for awhile, then?"

Smile still in place, Sam nodded, rolling back to his pillow. "'Night, Dean."

Dean waited until he heard his brother's breathing even out. "'Night, Sammy," he whispered.

www

"Where've you been?"

Sam looked up as Cooper entered the motel room, three bags in his arms and a newspaper in his hand. He watched as the man blinked in surprise at the display of firepower adorning Dean's bed.

"Getting supplies," Cooper replied. "What's all this?"

"I was bored," Dean informed him.

"That's never good," Sam filled in.

Twenty-four hours after he'd first woken up, Dean was able to stand long enough to shower. Cooper was insistent that they both rest as much as possible, but keeping Dean in bed had been a two-person job. Even though he could see his brother's weakness creep up on him at regular intervals, Sam knew Dean would insist he was okay, he was ready to go at a moment's notice, unless given another reason to stay still.

So, Sam had obeyed Cooper's orders to the letter, sleeping often and late, making it impossible for Dean to do anything else but comply. They'd watched endless hours of TV, hustled Cooper in a dozen games of poker—playing for meds and pretzel sticks—and elaborated on the hunts they'd survived. Dean had added Lethe to John's journal, marking it as their first encounter with a spirit with enough strength to become corporeal.

Nearly two days later, however, and Dean was restless. He was still pale, his cheekbones more prominent than usual, his voice a bit raspy at times, and once in awhile, he'd press his hand to his sternum as if to hold himself together as he coughed, but Cooper's prescription of rest, food, and medicine had started him on the best course for healing.

That morning, they woke to find a note instead of Cooper's bedroll on the floor. After each of them had showered, and Cooper still hadn't returned, Sam offered to empty out the Impala's trunk if Dean would agree to rest. Cleaning their weapons always seemed to have a calming effect on his brother.

Dean had agreed and they'd spread a few shotguns—regular barrel and sawed-off—several handguns, and a multitude of knives on the bed by the time Cooper returned.

"Where do you keep all that stuff?" Cooper asked, setting the bags on the table and sliding the chain lock across the door behind him.

Sam saw Dean tip his chin up at that, but answered Cooper's question. "Hidden compartment in the trunk of the car. Our Dad put it in there. Long time ago."

"What's up?" Dean asked, clearing his throat slightly.

"Bad news," Cooper said, tossing a newspaper down on the bed across several weapons.

Sam peered at the article below the fold of the paper. His heart dropped. "Hendrickson arrested Marshall?"

"On suspicion of aiding and abetting a criminal," Cooper nodded. "Don't know how long he'll hold out under Federal questioning."

"How much does he know?" Dean asked.

Cooper shook his head. "I haven't seen him since he took Mead to look for you—the day after...it all happened."

"Who did you see before you left?" Dean pressed, his brows close, his mouth grim. He was in interrogator mode and Sam felt himself go on alert.

Cooper rolled his lips. "Sherriff Mead. And Mandy."

"Did you tell either of them where you were going?" Dean asked, his eyes hard as he waited for the truth.

"No," Cooper shook his head. "Mead was…well, it was _not_ an easy conversation. I guess Marshall spent the time on that trip telling him about the night in the incinerator room. Mead came back, needing to know how much of it was true."

"What did you tell him?" Sam asked.

"I told him _all _of it was true," Cooper replied shrugging as he leaned back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "I told him what I'd seen, how I'd been hurt, what I knew you two had done. I told him about Wallace and he was…well, wrecked isn't even the best word."

"Why?" Dean drew his head back.

Cooper looked at him, his eyes sad. "Matthew Mead is not a bad man," he said. "He made a mistake."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "One person's mistake is another person's completely terrible no-good very bad day."

"He didn't know, did he?" Sam guessed. "I mean, he _really_ didn't know."

Cooper shook his head, looking at his hands. "He didn't even know about the deal Judge McAvoy made with Josephine Sanderson. Not until after they blew the dam. He said the Judge called Tolliver into his office when they heard the explosion and was panicking, asking if they were back, wanting to know if he'd seen them." Cooper shrugged helplessly. "It took Tolliver over an hour to figure out who _they _were. The Judge hadn't been too with it even then. By the time he reached out to Mead, the whole town was underwater. Matthew said they all decided to assume Wallace was in the nursing home and Colin was in Iraq."

"And Josephine?" Dean asked quietly. "Where did they conveniently decide she'd been spending the last four years?"

Cooper sighed as if he understood Dean's bitterness, but felt the barbs dig deep none-the-less. "I honestly don't know."

"What'd you tell Mandy?" Sam asked, deflecting Dean's ire and refocusing the conversation.

It still managed to surprise him that his brother could find it in himself—after all this time, all these hunts—to get worked up over the evils of humankind. He took hope from the fact that Dean cared so deeply, despite his posturing to the contrary.

"I just told her I needed some food for a road trip," Cooper said. "That I wanted some time off after everything that had happened. Nothing that Marshall could have picked up on if he talked to her when he got back."

Dean looked at Sam. "What are you thinking?"

Sam met his brother's eyes. "I'm thinking you're not ready to travel."

"Yeah, well," Dean muttered, his quick fingers seamlessly reassembling the Beretta in his grasp, "_I'm_ thinking I don't want to know what the inside of a Federal Prison looks like."

"What did you guys do to piss this guy off so badly?" Cooper asked, sitting down slowly.

"Got away," Dean replied, grimly, breaking down the next weapon—a sawed-off shotgun—his hand moving as if on tracks, nimbly removing each piece, examining it before cleaning.

"There's only so many graves you can dig up before someone finds you," Sam sighed, leaning back against the headboard of Dean's bed, leaving the guns to Dean and looking at the newspaper in his hand. "Eventually, you're labeled a freak."

"You don't think he'd be willing to listen to you?" Cooper tried, half-heartedly.

"Think how eager _you _were to believe us," Dean pointed out, reassembling the shotgun and moving to his Desert Eagle, "and multiply that by negative a _billion_. This guy? He's already made his decision about us. He's not interested in the truth."

"But, surely once the facts are laid out—"

"No," Dean interrupted Cooper, cutting him off. "He's got a file on us—on our _Dad_. He's labeled him some kind of…of whacko—his word, incidentally." He looked back down at the gun in his hand, speaking almost to himself. "The lives Dad saved? The things he took out? None of that matters. We're against the norm, outside the lines. We don't fit."

Sam exchanged a glance with Cooper. He'd not told Dean about Cooper's son, and he knew Cooper had yet to ask Dean about their dad. The focus had been on healing; opening old wounds wouldn't have aided in that effort.

But as it looked like their convalescence was nearing an end, Sam thought it might be the best time to bring everyone up to speed.

"Dean," he started. "Cooper—"

"Sam," Cooper interrupted, evidently guessing where Sam was headed. He shook his head subtly, but Dean saw, looking from one to the other.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Never mind," Sam shook his head, avoiding Dean's gaze.

Dean leveled his eyes on Sam, his voice heavy. "What is it, Sam?"

"I asked Sam about your Dad a few days ago," Cooper supplied. "He said you needed to tell me about him."

Dean frowned over at Sam. "He was your Dad, too, man."

"That's not what I meant," Sam tried, watching Dean's hands go still on the broken-down Desert Eagle. "Dean, when you were sick…you said some stuff."

Brows pulled close, Dean leaned toward Sam. "What kind of stuff?"

"You…you brought up Dad's deal," Sam said, ignoring Cooper's watchful eyes, the way the man had of listening with his whole body, and concentrated on Dean.

His brother was completely still, his eyes wide, barely any green around the pupil, his body tense. Sam swallowed before continuing.

"When you told me about Hendrickson…it was what he said about Dad that…that you wouldn't let go of," Sam said quietly, looking down. "And when you were…when the fever had you…you told me," he glanced up, meeting Dean's eyes, "that it should've been you."

Dean looked away.

"I know this isn't easy, Dean." Sam kept his voice purposefully soft. "I know what he did for you…what he made you promise—hell, what _I_ made you promise—I know it eats at you. Every day."

"So?" Dean bit off the word, rolling his head—chin first—to challenge Sam with a dead-panned expression and expressionless eyes. "Doesn't change a thing does it?"

"I just—when you trapped that crossroads demon…I think you wanted to trade up…and then when we were dealing with the Croatoan virus…," Sam felt anger working its way to the surface, coiling beneath his words, "you were willing to die in there with me."

"What's your point, Sam?"

"My point is that Ronald was _not_ your fault! Hendrickson isn't after us because of _you_!" Sam yelled, seeing Cooper flinch back with the force of his anger, but ignoring him. Ignoring everything but Dean. "My point is you're _not_ Dad! He's not here. _You_ are."

Dean stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He slid his eyes to look at Cooper, his face tight, lips pressed forward. Sam felt his belly tighten in anticipation of his brother's words.

"You want to know about our Dad?" Dean asked the M.E.

Cooper stayed very still, watching them both.

"He was the toughest bastard I've ever known. Impossible to please; when you got it wrong, you knew it. But when you got it right," he looked down for a moment, a humorless half-grin ticking up the corner of his mouth. "He kept us with him, kept us as safe as he could. We were a family with him. If he was going down…we were going down together."

Dean swallowed, and rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. "And then he disappeared. Just…gone, y'know? No note, nothing. With all the shit we deal with every day, all the time, I…had no idea how to deal with it. I didn't know if he was dead, or…," he paused, clearing his throat. "I got Sammy out of school and we started looking for him. He was our…Captain, I guess. Our glue. Without him, I—"

"That's where you're wrong, man," Sam said quietly, his anger cooling. "Dad wasn't the one that kept us together. _You_ were."

Dean looked over at him, a flash of vulnerability cutting through his eyes. Sam held his gaze until Dean turned away, lifting his face toward Cooper.

"You really want to know who my Dad was?"

Cooper nodded silently.

"He was a hero," Dean declared. "He was selfish ass, but he was a hero. He drove us hard, but he taught us how to survive. He taught us to…be a family. He saved more lives than anyone will ever know. He sacrificed _everything_ for us. For _me_. He traded his life for mine. And I…."

Dean shook his head, looking away. The room was quiet.

"No son of a bitch Federal Agent looking to level-up by bagging a grave-desecrating murder is going to change that." Dean's words were quiet, but their impact shook through Sam.

Sam wanted to reach out, touch Dean's shoulder, make contact somehow. But he knew that contact in this moment could shatter his brother's control, and there were times when that control was the only thing keeping Dean from falling apart so completely no one could put him back together again.

He had to settle himself with simply looking at Dean, his own face pulled into a fist of emotion rivaling his brother's.

"I think I understand something now," Cooper said softly. "I've spent all these years looking at the facts. Using them to prove to me what counts and what doesn't. But I missed seeing the whole story. The facts just show what's on the surface."

The brothers looked at him, waiting.

"I spent so much time…fact checking…that I missed…faith."

Sam saw Dean shake his head once in resistance.

"Not in God, maybe," Cooper continued. "But in people. This Agent Hendrickson…he's got all the facts. You two don't even try to say he's lying. But his story…it's all wrong." He glanced down, shaking his head slowly. "He's missed the reasons that give those facts meaning. And those reasons are fueled by the faith you have in each other—the faith your father obviously had in you."

Dean glanced over at Sam, questions in his eyes. Sam nodded, the corner of his mouth curling up in an answer.

The unfamiliar ring of Cooper's cell phone caused them all to jump. Dean looked up quickly, meeting Cooper's surprised glance. Sam stood, uncertain what he should do, but knowing in his gut this call wouldn't be delivering good news.

Taking a breath, Cooper answered. "Hello? Oh, hey, Matthew."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance.

"No, I hadn't seen that. Not much use for papers on vacation."

Cooper looked at them, his eyes apologetic.

"What makes him think they're in Madison?"

"Shit," Sam whispered. Madison was too close. Madison may as well be here. He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead with the flat of his hand.

"Matthew…why are you helping this guy?" Cooper asked, dragging a hand down his face. "Federal Age—so the hell what? What is he to you? Those two guys saved our lives!"

Cooper was quiet for a moment. Sam grabbed the duffel bag from the floor and tossed it toward Dean.

"I know you do. Well, thanks. Tell Marshall I'm pulling for him. No…I don't know when I'll be back. Don't know about you, but I don't think I can go back to business as usual after all that."

Dean began loading the weapons into the duffel.

"Yeah, okay. See ya."

Cooper closed his phone. "He's close," he told them.

"We, uh, picked up on that," Dean muttered, loading the last of the weapons and pushing himself to his feet.

"Where are you going to go?" Cooper asked, his shoulders bowing helplessly, uncertainty coloring his tone.

Sam looked his brother. Wherever it was, it had to be far, they both knew that. They were going to have to dead-head it away from here, not look back.

"Dean?" Sam asked, pouring more than just an echo of Cooper's question into that word. _Are you well enough? Can we do this? Stay together stay alive, right?_

Dean looked at him, his eyes shadowed. He opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the sound of Sam's phone.

"Jeeze, Grand Central Station," Dean muttered as Sam dug his phone out of his pocket.

Glancing at the caller ID, Sam blinked in surprise, answering while looking at Dean.

"Bobby?"

The look of happy relief on Dean's face at that name was enough to elicit an answering smile on Sam's.

"_What the hell are you thinking, Sam? Calling me twice and not leaving any message?"_

"I, uh, didn't know you had caller ID."

"_I got all kinds of ID, boy. Where are you?"_

"Bobby, we've got some trouble—"

"_I know that, you idjit. I do own a TV."_

"Oh."

"_Are you okay?"_

"Yeah."

"_Your brother?"_

"He is now. We…had a little help from a friend."

"_Had me a few of those over the years."_

"We're in Fennimore, WI," Sam told him. "Need to be somewhere else. Now."

"_Well, too bad I sent my transporter out to be cleaned," _Bobby grumbled. "_Think you can get yourselves to Providence?"_

"Rhode Island?" Sam bleated.

"_I knew you were the smart one,"_ Bobby teased. _"Some gal stabbed a perfect stranger through the heart."_

Sam blinked. "How is this our kind of case?"

"_She claims it was God's will."_

Sam looked at Dean. "Oh, this oughtta go over well."

Dean frowned. "What?"

Sam waved a hand at him. "It's gonna take us a day or so to get there, Bobby."

"_Get you far enough from that Agent that's breathing down your neck?"_

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "It will."

"_You two really okay?"_

"It was rough," Sam confessed.

"_Dean being stubborn about it?"_

"What do you think?"

"_He's sitting right there, ain't he?"_

"Yep."

"_Give him the phone."_

Sam handed the phone to Dean. "He wants to talk to you."

Dean glanced at the phone as if it were a particularly large rat, then took it gingerly from Sam's hand. "Hey, Bobby."

"Who's Bobby?" Cooper asked.

"Kind of an…adopted uncle," Sam told him. "He's one of the few friends my Dad had who's still alive."

Cooper lifted his eyebrows. "He wants you to go to Rhode Island?"

"Heard about a job there," Sam said, trying to focus on what Dean was saying to Bobby.

"You got it," Dean said. "We'll call you soon." He closed the phone and handed it back to Sam. "He said to tell you that I should find a massage parlor when we get there."

"What?" Sam drew his head back, his face twisting into an expression of irritated disbelief. "You're crazy."

"Said it would help me heal up quicker." Dean's smirk was threatening to turn into a full-fledged grin.

"Dude, we are _not_ looking for massage parlor." Sam rolled his eyes.

"If I'm gonna have to hide out from Hendrickson while you poke around about this job, I gotta have _something_ to do," Dean shrugged innocently.

Sam waved a dismissive hand at him, turning away to start gathering up their things. "I am not listening to this."

"A massage might actually be quite helpful," Cooper chimed in. "Help with the muscle strain from coughing for so long."

"See?" Dean lifted his hands in a _told you so_ shrug.

Sam pointed at Cooper. "Don't you start. He doesn't need any encouragement."

Cooper laughed, turning to the bag of supplies he brought, and suddenly stopped. It was if he'd run into an invisible wall. The brothers paused and looked him, confused.

"I'm never going to see you again, am I?" Cooper said softly, realization drawing his face down. "You move on to the next hunt, the next town. Hopefully getting through that one relatively unscathed. And that's it. You'll just…continue to live this…shadowed life."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"It's the only life we know," Sam offered. _And we have a demon to kill_, he thought.

"And if we didn't do it…," Dean shrugged. "It might not make a big difference, but…we're not willing to take that risk."

Cooper huffed out a brief, humorless laugh. "I think I'm actually going to miss you two."

Sam had to admit, it was hard to get close to some people and walk away. Especially when those people had a hand in keeping them alive.

"Don't go getting all sentimental on us, Coop," Dean teased, doing his best to lighten the mood. "You never know when we might need a good M.E."

"Not funny," Cooper scolded, but Sam saw a reluctant grin tug up the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," Sam said, sincerity turning his voice soft. "We don't make a lot of friends doing what we do."

"As many lives as you save, I'm surprised you don't have your own fan base," Cooper shook his head.

"We mean it," Dean said. "You're right. We do live in the shadows. And like I said, with a few exceptions, when we go…there won't be a lot of people who will even remember we'd been here once. So…meeting someone like you," Dean looked down, turning his silver ring around his finger, "who is willing to go out of his way to save our lives…," he looked up, meeting Cooper's eyes once more. "We won't forget it."

"Are you going to head back to Lethe?" Sam asked.

Cooper looked at him. "Not yet. I have some…fences to mend." He smiled softly.

"I hope it works out for you," Sam said sincerely.

He wanted to know the end of Cooper's story, to know if there was hope for finding his son again after all these years. He wanted, just once, to keep a friend close to him on the merit of their life experiences and not because he'd saved them from falling victim to a supernatural death.

"Well," Cooper said, taking a breath. "If you two are going to drive across country, we'd better make sure you're stocked up."

It took over an hour and some creative positioning, but they were finally able to fit the extra supplies Cooper had purchased—spare blankets, medicine, socks, sweatshirts, and two used canvass jackets—along with some food for the road in with their duffel bags and weapons.

Standing in the snow-dusted parking lot, the sound of the highway beckoning like a siren's call, the brothers regarded the M.E.

"You take care of each other," Cooper told them. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"I hope you find what you're looking for," Dean said softly.

Sam saw Cooper's eyes flinch, the lines deepening as Dean unknowingly hit a nerve. Sam glanced at Dean, momentarily wondering if Cooper had shared the story of his son with him. But then he realized it didn't matter. Dean could read people; he'd always had a knack for it. And in this man, his brother saw someone searching. And it was enough.

Cooper smiled, reaching out to clasp Dean's outstretched hand. He turned and grasped Sam's, smiling at him as well, before lifting his hand in a salute and turning toward his truck.

"He really doesn't like goodbyes, does he?" Dean commented as Cooper pulled out of the parking lot, heading west on the main road.

"Like you're a big fan?" Sam retorted dryly.

Dean pulled a face in his direction. "Hey, maybe we just find a motel with one of those coin-operated massage bed things," he suggested, an eyebrow raised.

"Get in the car," Sam ordered, rolling his eyes.

Happily allowing Dean to slide behind the wheel of his baby once more, Sam closed the passenger side door, a smile relaxing his face as Dean turned on the radio the moment the Impala's engine caught, the sound of Kansas welcoming them home.

Things were starting to feel normal again.

"_They say the sea turns so dark that you know it's time, you see the sign. They say the point demons guard is an ocean grave, for all the brave. Was it you that said, "How long, how long, how long to the point of no return?"_

"That's more like it," Dean sighed happily, clearing his throat slightly as they backed out of the parking lot. "Let's see what the east coast has for us, Sammy."

"Think it'll be warmer?"

"I'd be happy with no snow," Dean muttered, pulling onto the highway.

Not more than two miles off the exit, Sam saw the lights.

"Dean."

"I see 'em."

Heading west, a line of four police cruisers and a dark sedan passed them, lights swirling in the gray evening air.

"You think that was…?" Sam began, not wanting to voice his worry.

Dean was dividing tense attention between the road in front of them and the rear-view mirror. Bob Seger's whiskey-smooth voice filled the space Kansas vacated.

"…_I was living to run and running to live, never worried about paying or even how much I owed, moving eight miles a minute for months at a time, breaking all of the rules that would bend…"_

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"No matter what, we do _not_ ditch this car."

Sam nodded. "Agreed."

"Feel like taking the scenic route?" Dean's eyes were still bouncing to the rear-view mirror, his shoulders tense, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Sam dug the atlas out of the glove box. "As long as it doesn't start snowing," he complied.

Dean pulled off an exit onto a state road, coughing loosely into the crook of his elbow. Sam handed him a water bottle. After a few miles, Sam felt the tension begin to ease from the confines of the car.

"If that _was_ him," Dean said finally, "he doesn't know our car."

"Let's keep it that way," Sam said. "Until we're sure we've shaken him, you two stay out of sight."

Dean grinned, rubbing the palm of his hand over the steering wheel, his ring skipping over the ridges. "Hear that baby? We stay together."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You have an unhealthy attachment to this car."

"C'mon, Sam," Dean reached over, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "She saved our lives more than once. You never know. She might even be able to save the world."

"Right." Sam's reply dripped sarcasm.

A familiar guitar riff rolled from the radio and Dean grinned. He turned the volume up until anything outside of music was rendered obsolete. When Ronnie Van Zant's voice kicked in with the lyrics, Dean joined in.

"_If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me? For I must be traveling on now 'cause there's too many places I've got to see…"_

"C'mon, Sam," Dean demanded, smacking Sam's chest with the back of his hand.

"Naw," Sam shook his head, grinning at his incorrigible brother.

A week ago, Sam had almost lost Dean beneath the frozen surface of a haunted lake. Four days ago, he'd been convinced his brother was going to die from the fever burning through him. And now, while not as strong as could be, Dean was practically brimming with life. He was in his element—behind the wheel of his car, tearing down a back road in Wisconsin, through a winter evening, toward another hunt, another job, another place.

Maybe Sam had been wrong. Maybe this life wouldn't take his brother. Maybe his brother was made for this life.

"We're gonna be okay, aren't we." It wasn't a question. Sam said it with the knowledge that somehow, someway, when the world was done with them and the job was finally over, it was true.

Sam looked at Dean, catching his smirk, the light in his eyes.

"Long as we stick together, Sammy," Dean said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, "we'll be just fine."

Taking a breath, Sam joined in, his off-key notes sliding around his brother's harmony.

"_'Cause I'm as free as a bird now, and this bird you cannot change. Lord knows, I can't change…."_

* * *

**Playlist:**

_Point of No Return_ by Kansas

_Against the Wind_ by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band

_Free Bird_ by Lynyrd Skynyrd

**a/n: **Fennimore, WI, is an actual town. I've taken liberties with its size; I have no idea how many hotels it actually has. *smiles* No offense meant to any Fennimore residents.

I am going to be taking a break from writing multi-chapter SPN fics for awhile. I made a resolution at the turn of this year to complete a draft of an original story by December 31, 2011, and with the load of real life right now, I don't have enough of _me_ to indulge in the enjoyment of plotting out lengthy fanfics _and_ make a solid attempt at an original story.

I will continue to write one-shots, though, to stay in the game (so to speak). In fact, I have a one-shot for **yasminke**'s winning bid in the Australian Flood Relief author's auction (at fandom_flood_ap on LJ) to be created and posted soon.

I can't express to you adequately how much writing fanfic has meant to me these last five years. These stories, these characters, and your feedback have changed me—for the better. The whole experience has made me into a better person and now I'm going to see if I can roll with it outside the amazing world of the Winchesters.

I hope you won't forget me. I look forward to your thoughts on any one-shots you see pop up in your reminders or LJ communities. Slán agus beannacht leat!


End file.
